Julia
by Rabid Raccoons
Summary: Two brothers, one beautiful, deadly woman. A collaborative effort by FradyCat and Serialgal.
1. Head Over Heels

**Title: Julia**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: This disclaimer applicable to entire story. All things Eppes are owned by CBS et al. "Julia" and other extraneous characters are figments of two sick imaginations. We started writing this story before the Janus List episode, so Colby is one of the characters.**

**Please note: Beginning with chapter 2, this story will be upgraded to an "M" rating. There is a lot talk about sex and rape - no graphic or explicit sex scenes, but several are implied, and there is a lot of conversation about the darker practices, by virtue of the villian we chose. Fans of either FraidyCat and/or Serialgal who want to follow the Rabid Raccoons should be prepared for that. And now without further ado, we bring you Julia, the woman you'll love to hate.**

**Chapter 1: Head Over Heels**

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Don pushed the front door open and poked his head into the opening. "Dad?" Getting no reply, he pushed his way in, making his way toward the kitchen. "Dad?" Still nothing. Don ran a hand over his head. His dad's car was there, but Charlie's wasn't. Maybe they were out running errands. So much the better. The game wasn't going to start for an hour, but a little pre-game vegetation wouldn't hurt.

He'd been looking forward to Sunday all week. They'd been buried at work the last few weeks; he hadn't had a Saturday off in a month, and he was anticipating a couple of beers, the sofa, a ballgame, and hopefully dinner. With any luck, his father and Charlie were at the grocery store. He turned and headed for the refrigerator, opened the door and examined the contents. He glanced at his watch. Eleven in the morning. Maybe a little too early for beer yet. Iced tea looked good. He turned as the kitchen door burst open and his father stomped in from the back yard.

"Oh Donnie, great," beamed Alan. "Grab me a bottle of water and come outside for a minute, will you?"

"Sure," murmured Don, casting a longing glance at the sofa through the doorway.

The back yard looked like a category two tornado had struck the landscaping. Piles of sheared branches from the shrubs and mounds of weeds unearthed from the beds littered the lawn. Alan eyed it with satisfaction. "Grab a lawn bag, and help me pick this stuff up," he commanded.

Don scowled. "Where's Charlie? The last time I checked, this yard belonged to him."

Alan quirked an eyebrow at him. "Your brother's out on a date."

"A date," repeated Don, skeptically. "At eleven on a Sunday morning?"

Alan pursed his lips. "I believe the date started sometime last night." He stifled a grin at his older son's expression. Alan did feel that Charlie was pushing it just a bit by not coming home last night – he had only known the young lady for three weeks, but he had to admit, the look on Donnie's face was priceless. "Hold that bag open."

Don held the plastic bag open mechanically, his mind obviously still on his father's last statement. He hadn't even known his brother was dating anyone. "Who is she? How long have they been going out?"

"Haven't met her yet. Three weeks," grunted Alan, pushing branches into the opening.

"Three weeks, huh?" Don tried to look noncommittal. It had taken Charlie months to get to the point where he had spent a night with Amita. As the reality sunk in, a slow grin started on Don's face. This would earn his brother a little teasing, or a least a round of merciless questions. It was the least he could do. After all, he was doing his brother's yard work for him.

An hour later, he stomped into the kitchen, wiping sweat off of his brow, no longer smiling. Doing Charlie's chores for him had grown irksome after the first few bags. Sighing, he grabbed a beer, headed into the living room and plunked down on the sofa. Alan followed him in, water bottle in hand, and made for his easy chair. As Don reached for the remote, he heard his brother's car door slam. He flicked on the television, and glanced at his father, then looked at the door as it flew open.

Charlie breezed in. Don could think of no other way to describe the movement. His brother's suit was disheveled, his curls were tousled, and he had a huge smile on his face. His eyes were shining, focused on some distant nirvana that Don could only guess at, and he looked like he was walking on a cloud. "Hey guys," he said, beaming.

Alan raised his eyebrows and shot a quick glance at Don, then looked back at his younger son. "Charlie. How was your date?"

"Great," sighed Charlie, his face still wreathed in a dreamy smile. "Just –," he paused, looking for words, "great." He headed for the stairs, bounding up them with a spring in his step, and called back over his shoulder. "I'll be back down in a minute."

Don sat there, his beer forgotten, staring after him, and suddenly realized his mouth was hanging open. He shut it and glanced sideways at Alan, hoping he hadn't noticed his obviously dumbfounded expression. From the smirk on his father's face, he was sure he had.

A half hour later, Charlie was downstairs, showered and changed. He headed immediately for the dining room table and started sorting through papers. Don had gotten engrossed in the game, but curiosity pulled his attention away, and he jerked a glance over his shoulder. "Hey bro – come over and sit with us. Tell us about this date."

Charlie threw them a quick absent look that barely made contact. "Oh, sorry, can't. I've got to get up to school and get some work done. I have papers to grade, something to do for Millie, I am so far behind -," While he talked, he stuffed papers into his briefcase hastily, and closed it.

"Whoa – wait for just a second," protested Don, to his brother's retreating back. "Do you have time to come into the office tomorrow? I've got something I want you take a look at."

"Yeah, sure, whatever," Charlie tossed back over his shoulder, on his way out of the door.

Don sat back and looked at his father, as if he was expecting an explanation. All he got was a shrug.

"Don't look at me," said Alan. "That's the way it's been around here for the past two weeks. I hope you're staying for dinner. I really don't want to eat alone again."

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"The mayor's called us in on this one," Don stated. He was standing in front of the screen in the conference room and his team's eyes were glued to him. Everyone's, that was, but Charlie's. His brother was sitting with his elbow on the table in front of him, playing with a pencil. His arm propped up his head, which was decidedly not pointed in Don's direction. Charlie's laptop was open in front of him, but he wasn't focused on that either; he was staring absently at his pencil, which was performing gyrations in his fingers.

Don frowned and continued. "Several neighborhoods have been experiencing rashes of armed robberies, far above the usual number. It looks like several different perpetrators might be involved, so on the surface, they seem to be unrelated. There have been so many more of them, so suddenly; however, that the D.A. is conjecturing that there might be a connection between them. The first thing we need to determine is whether or not there is really a significant difference here – is it just coincidence or is there a definite increase with a definite reason?"

He paused and looked at Charlie meaningfully. Ordinarily, his brother would have jumped into the conversation by now. Certainly the last question was something that his brother would normally have viewed as his cue. "Charlie."

"Huh?" Charlie looked up as if surprised, his face still attached to his hand. "Oh, right. There are a number of tests we can do to determine if there is a statistical significance. We can check to see if this normal random variation, or if this is specific variation due to some outside cause." He straightened in his seat, gathering his composure. "Get me the data, I can run the numbers."

Colby had been watching Charlie with a smirk on his face. Charlie had reminded him of himself in school, slouched in a desk with his mind on something else. To see the normally attentive professor acting like a bored student was refreshing. Pretty funny, actually. He leaned over to Megan and spoke quietly. "I think the Whiz Kid is getting bored by this lecture."

"Oh, his mind is elsewhere," smiled Megan, mischievously, speaking under her breath. "I hear he has a girlfriend. Don said they don't know who she is yet. In fact, Larry hasn't even met her; but he said Charlie glides around campus as if he's not even there, half the time! Charlie has a mystery woman."

"Reeves, do you have a comment?" barked Don.

Megan pursed her lips and segued smoothly into the conversation. "What if we compile all of the available video from the robberies and run it through the face recognition data base?" She raised her eyebrows at Don, innocently.

He grudgingly wiped the scowl from his face. "That's a start. You and Colby can get all of the video from LAPD and run that. David, you and I can round up reports for Charlie. We don't really have a deadline on this one, in fact, if we find an angle, LAPD may very well want to follow it up. The sooner we find that angle, though, the sooner we can get this one off of our backs. Everyone note – this is additional activity – it is not to interfere with the cases we have going already."

As he finished talking, he saw Colby raise his eyebrows and grin at Charlie. Charlie, not sure what was generating Colby's expression, looked away, disconcerted, rubbing the back of his head. Megan was smiling at both of them. David sat behind them all, watching the looks. Don suddenly had a rush of sympathy for his brother, for any teacher, for that matter. Granted this case was a bit more mundane than most, but his team was behaving like a bunch of school kids with attention deficit disorder. He glared at his agents, who quickly sobered. "Class dismissed," he said wryly. "Get to work."

He stood as they filed out, and as he watched Charlie pack up his computer, he glanced at his watch. 11:45. Curiosity was killing him. "Hey, Charlie. How about some lunch?"

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Charlie sat slouched in the booth, the menu in front of him. The place reminded him of her. He had met her in a deli near campus. It was funny, he thought. He went there fairly often, but he had never seen her there before. She had caught his eye almost immediately – she was absolutely the most beautiful woman he had ever seen; he was sure of it.

Not that he typically went for looks – to be certain, Amita and Susan, the only other women he that he'd had serious relationships with, were beautiful, but he had been attracted first by their minds. Not that this woman didn't have a mind – it had turned out that she was clever, insightful, and fun. And gorgeous. Unbelievably gorgeous. He straightened, trying to focus on the menu, and caught his brother's eyes on him.

"So," said Don, "I never got a chance to talk to you yesterday. What's this about a new girlfriend?"

"Yeah." Charlie looked down at his menu with a smile, his eyes unfocused, seeing instead the vision in his mind. "We met about three weeks ago, at the deli near campus."

Don grinned at Charlie's expression. His brother had taken it hard when his relationship with Amita had ended – how long ago? It had to be at least seven months. It was good to see him dating again. "So what's she like?"

Charlie looked up, his face radiant. "Oh she's, wow, she's just --- wow. She's incredible." He looked down, with a hint of a blush, and then back up, his eyes finding his brother's. When he spoke he had a bit of amazement in his voice. "I don't think I've ever felt this way before. She's just ----," He shook his head, at a loss for words. "Wow."

Don couldn't stifle a grin; his brother looked so - smitten. With the thought came a twinge of concern. Charlie had been devastated after the breakup with Amita. This relationship had just gotten off the ground, and his brother already seemed head over heels. He decided to push a little further. "Seems pretty serious."

Charlie sighed. "I know it's only been three weeks, and we really don't know each other yet. The attraction though, it's amazing. It's so strong. There's a chemistry between us – there really is." He blushed and rubbed the back of his neck. "We – she- it's incredible, if you know what I mean. Unbelievable. Mind-blowing-,"

"Okay, okay, I get the picture," Don said hastily. "So what else does she like to do?"

Charlie blushed even harder, if such a thing were possible. "I, uh, I'm still trying to figure that out." He added quickly, as if it was an afterthought. "Concerts. We both like music. We went to a concert one night, went to dinner one night, watched the sunset from the pier…"

Charlie faded off, a smile on his face, and Don's expression softened. "Well, she sounds great, Chuck. What's her name?"

"Julia," said Charlie dreamily. "Her name is Julia."

End Chapter One


	2. Pushing the Envelope

**Title: ****Julia**

**A/N: Just a reminder, with this chapter the rating changes to M. This story is something of a departure from our usual writing - the theme is much more mature. Again there are no explicit sex scenes, but please be advised, the subject matter is not for our younger readers (under 17). **

**Chapter 2: ****Pushing the Envelope**

Her nameless partner screamed in ecstatic agony, and Julia was surprised to feel a small jolt of pleasure.

She had always been more masochistic than sadistic; she preferred to experience the pain herself. Sex was not always involved -- but if she was honest, the release she felt as a direct result of the punishment, whatever form it was in -- was orgasmic. She always sobbed, and it was not because of the physical pain -- although there had been times it certainly could have been. Once she had let a man twice her size crack her forearm over his knee, for example. When the bone had protruded through the skin, she had actually lost consciousness in her joy.

As she delivered another roundhouse karate kick to his face, dislodging at least two teeth, she tried not to think about how much she would like their positions reversed. Julia knew that until it was time to make Don Eppes pay, she would have to be careful about sustaining injuries, and new scars. This was dangerous, partnering with anonymous strangers picked up in sticky, dark bars at 4:00 in the morning, but it was necessary. It kept her from completely going over the edge, from panicking and playing her hand too quickly, just to get this done.

She smiled serenely, watching the stranger in front of her stagger onto all-fours on the floor, his head drooping, as her eyes roamed the room and evaluated the various tools at her disposal. Besides, Julia reasoned, this was good training. She could practice things she would do to Charlie, when it was time. She would do them in front of Don. That was the entire point.

She had made a genuine effort for the federal agent. She had restarted therapy, and turned her back on this life. Julia knew, from the moment she had met him over the last decent orange in the produce section, that he was a prize worth the effort.

Her face distorted in a grimace of disgust. He should have seen that they were meant to be together, too. The variety of pain he inflicted upon her, when he told her he never wanted to see her again; was a pain she did not find pleasurable. That was a pain for which he would pay.

Julia didn't feel guilty about Charlie at all. The 'genius' was a fool. She had played him like a symphony from the beginning. The slightest bit of enthusiasm exhibited in the bedroom puffed him up with the pride of accomplishment -- as it did many men. He had been walking around with a target on his back and a noose around his neck for weeks, too sated and distracted to notice. He was almost too easy, and sometimes she wondered casually why it was so simple to please him. Had no one ever tried, before?

It was true that when she had been seeing Don, he had cancelled one date claiming that his brother had just broken up with a girlfriend, and needed him...so Julia was fairly certain Charlie was not completely inexperienced, either in sex, or in relationships. Perhaps the poor man just wasn't very good at either, and that was why the other woman had left him.

She nodded, satisfied. That must be it. She would actually be doing him a favor, when she ended his tormented life.

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Julia ran a hand over her shoulder-length red hair, smoothed her pale yellow dress of imaginary wrinkles and turned as far as the shoulder belt would allow. "You're sure your brother won't be at dinner, tonight?"

Charlie sat a little nervously beside her, gripping the wheel hard at "10" and "2", ferrying a girl home to meet the parent. He glanced at her quickly, then turned his attention back to the road. "I told you, his entire team was called to Sacramento for a few days. They left this morning. Something about providing additional security for the Presidential visit. I wanted to reschedule dinner for next week, but my father is so anxious to meet you... He looked so disappointed, when I brought up that possibility."

She laid a calming hand on his cheek, caressing the stubble and moving her fingers back through his hair. "Of course you shouldn't have rescheduled. We'll have dinner with -- Don, is it? We'll have dinner with him a lot, I'm sure. You said he comes by the house often after work."

Charlie reddened slightly. If he didn't look at her, maybe they could make it to the house without his becoming aroused. Of course, it would help if she would stop touching him that way. He cleared his throat and forced himself to shift away from her on the seat. "Julia..."

She laughed at his discomfort and dropped her hand. "All right. All right." She glanced at the paper sack between her feet on the floorboard. "I hope the wine is okay. I wish your father had let me bring something else. Dessert. I'm very good at desserts."

Braking at a red light, he allowed himself to look at her again. "I know," he said huskily. "I plan on sampling some of your desserts, later. Back at your place."

She blushed prettily. "Charlie! Now who's pushing the envelope?"

When Alan moved to the sink to wash his hands after de-boning the chicken, his eyes lit on the part of the garage that he could see through the kitchen window. For a moment, he allowed the water to run and stood still, musing. He had not seen Charlie go out to the garage in weeks. For the first time in the history of his second-born son, something was more important to him than his work. Cognitive Emergence research had stopped. Charlie was barely keeping up with his CalSci responsibilities. Don had groused just last night that his brother had farmed out the last two consulting jobs he had called him on -- one to Larry, and the other to Amita.

Alan had been surprised that Charlie had voluntarily approached Amita about anything. The two made an effort to maintain a civil professional relationship -- they worked at the same university, after all -- but there was unresolved business between them. The break-up had been painful; certainly, at least, for his son. While Alan was pleased that Charlie was at last moving on, and discovering that there was more to life than chalk, he was admittedly apprehensive about it. Charlie was a grown man, and he had never reacted to a woman this way, before. He had _lived_ with Susan, he had almost _married_ Amita, and his work had not suffered like this.

The women he had chosen before had shared his work, and possessed impressive minds of their own. Alan was a little embarassed to be thinking this, but Julia was a minimum wage receptionist at a printing company; he feared the relationship was entirely visceral, and he doubted Charlie would be able to deny his intellectual needs for long. The last thing either he or Don wanted to see was another ugly break-up, and more pain for Charlie. Not to mention all the research he had already done on Cognitive Emergence. Larry and Millie said it was brilliant, and Alan had no doubt that it was. It would be a shame for all of that to go to waste.

The water started to cool and Alan jerked back to reality. He shook his head. He was old enough to know how unfair it was to make judgments without all the data, first. Julia could be a perfectly lovely woman. She probably was, in fact, for his son had fallen quickly in love with her -- and his son was no fool. It was early in the relationship, and when the novelty wore off a little, things would settle down for Charlie. He would get back to some of his old routines.

Alan shut off the flow of water and reached for the hand towel. He was just happy he was finally getting to meet her. Obviously, his opinion still mattered to Charlie, and that was always nice to know. Such a shame Don couldn't be here -- but there would be more dinners, Alan was sure. He turned and walked toward the pantry, ready to start the escalloped potatoes Charlie liked so much. He nodded to himself, humming.

Yes, she had seemed like a lovely woman, on the phone. Her voice was friendly, and lilting.

She had even offered to bring dessert.

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Later, drizzling strawberry glaze over a homemade angel food cake, Alan found himself flabbergasted and blushing. Charlie and Julia had disappeared upstairs almost as soon as they had arrived. The story was that he was showing her his room, but Alan wasn't deaf, yet. He could hear them up there, and he knew what they were doing. He didn't know if he should be angry or concerned. This was Charlie's house, and he was a consenting adult. Still, Alan and Margaret had never accepted a dinner invitation and snuck off for a quickie as soon as they arrived – and God knew, in the early years, they had occasionally been tempted. Plus, this was completely out of character for Charlie. Now Don, Don he could believe doing something like this, and it was that knowledge that left him confused. Did he have the right to look the other way for one son, and raise hell with the other?

The most pressing matter, of course – at least, the most pressing for Alan, at the moment – was how in the world he was supposed to look at the two of them over chicken l'orange and pretend this was nothing but a sweet Dad-meets-girl dinner. It was beyond him at the moment how he was supposed to "act normal" in this entirely abnormal situation.

Crossing to the refrigerator to take out the salad, Alan opened the door and sighed in relief.

At least they didn't take the whipped cream.

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Alan smiled vaguely at Julia's forehead and offered her the dish of potatoes. "Please have some more, dear. I see you're just as fond of this dish as my son is."

She purposely brushed his hand when she accepted the casserole, just to watch him blush. She could tell he knew what had gone on upstairs, and it made him uncomfortable. The poor man hadn't looked her in the eye all night. "Thank-you, Alan," she purred, helping herself to another large helping. She managed, somehow, to elbow Charlie while she was at it. "They _are_ delicious. I'll just have to work them off, later!"

Charlie made a slight choking noise and reached quickly for his glass of water. Alan cleared his throat and continued to pretend nothing had happened. "So. It must be exciting to work so closely with the Secret Service, don't you think? Will Don get to meet the President?"

Charlie set down his glass and shrugged. "I'm not sure… Why would that impress you, anyway, Dad? You didn't even vote for him!"

Alan reached for a slice of garlic bread. "That doesn't matter. He's still the President of the United States; it would be an honor to meet him." He frowned, suddenly. "Unless someone attempts to assassinate him. If they need additional security from two FBI offices, there may have been a threat, or something. Don could get hurt…"

Charlie tried to keep his father from going down that path. "You're right – about meeting him, anyway. I wasn't even old enough to vote, the first time I met a President, and I was still impressed!"

Julia felt a little shock. The first time? Just how important was this idiot? "Sweetheart," she said, a little stiffly, "I had no idea…. How many Presidents have you met?"

Charlie speared another chuck of chicken and started to raise it toward his mouth. "I dunno. It's no big deal."

Alan almost looked Julia in the eye for a moment, then suddenly remembered why he wasn't and beamed instead at her forehead. "Charlie's won several national scientific commendations. I believe he's been invited to the White House twice, and once President Clinton presented him an award at a ceremony here in L.A. He was campaigning for re-election at the time."

Julia smiled brightly and fiercely jabbed her own fork into the chicken. As she dragged it through the sauce, two thoughts occurred to her. First – and she tried to repress this thought, at least for a while – she decided that before this was over she would plunge a fork into Charlie. Second, when she allowed the knowledge of his importance to settle a little, she allowed that it actually bumped up the payoff, a little, knowing in what a sniveling mess she would leave him. He would never be on any presidential guest list again, of that she was certain.

She almost giggled around the chicken.

This was just getting better and better.

END Chapter Two


	3. Amp It Up A Notch

**Title: ****Julia**

**Chapter 3: ****Amp It Up A Notch**

Julia leaned against the doorway of Charlie's office, observing silently for just a moment. The professor was engrossed in some paperwork on his desk, oblivious to her presence, or the rest of his surroundings, for that matter. Her green eyes narrowed, and she smiled, remembering the night before. It wasn't that he was bad in bed, she had come to realize; just inexperienced. He was generous, and willing to learn, and she, of course, was an excellent teacher.

The thought brought a seductive smile to her face, which faded into a pout of disappointment. It was a pity that she had to keep the sex so conventional, but it was necessary if she didn't want to scare him off. He was a bit naïve, innocent. The smile returned, along with a glint in her eyes. Fun would come soon enough; she just had to be patient. She felt a flash of excitement course through her, as she imagined the things she would do to him. She had never gotten as much of a thrill from giving punishment as she got from receiving it, but this was different. This time, she would be giving it to someone who didn't want it, and the concept provided an unforeseen, welcome stimulation.

The thought titillated her, and generated a flush of impatience mingled with pleasure. Her fingers curled reflexively and she purred softly, like a cat. She smiled at the idea. She was the cat, and he was the mouse. Her innocent little mouse.

She would start the process soon. The glorious physical release she was saving as a final reward. First, though, she would hit him where it counted – cerebrally. She would mess with his mind. She arranged herself in a seductive pose against the door, and spoke, her voice low and throaty. "Charlie."

His head came up, utter surprise on his face; that changed immediately to a smile, and a soft look of pleasure in his eyes. "Julia. What are you doing here?" He rose as she sashayed toward him, her eyes half-closed slits of seductiveness.

"I was out running errands, and just thought I'd stop," she cooed, placing her arms around his neck. She pushed her body suggestively against his, and brushed his lips lightly with her own. "Are you coming over tonight?"

He smiled back at her. "I seem to recall that my calendar is open." He dipped his head slightly and looked up into her eyes. "We don't need to stay in again. We can go somewhere."

She fought down the quick flash of displeasure. Was he rejecting her suggestion? She was in control here, not him. She covered the change in her expression by nuzzling his neck. "I had planned on fixing dinner for the two of us. You know, romance, candlelight, that sort of thing." She felt him relax, melt with pleasure at her touch, and a smile of triumph lit her face.

"Sure," he murmured, struggling to keep his voice steady, his body in control.

That body stiffened suddenly, and she felt his head go up. She stepped back, and catching his eyes, looked toward the doorway. A young woman with dark hair was standing there, uncertainly.

"Amita," said Charlie hastily, running awkward hands over his jacket.

Julia eyed his face, noting the forced composure; then looked speculatively at the woman. Someone he has a relationship with, she decided. Or had. Could this be the prior girlfriend?

Amita walked forward stiffly, carrying a stack of folders. "I finished the analysis on the robbery statistics. The tests showed no statistical significance. There is a spike, but it's within the normal range of variation," she said, casting a sideways glance at the other woman. '_Who on earth is she?'_ she wondered, and in almost the same thought, took in the fact that whoever she was, she was stunning, unbelievably beautiful. In spite of the fact that it had been she that had broken up with Charlie and that the breakup had been months ago, Amita was suddenly seized by slight fit of jealousy.

The look did not escape Julia, and she jumped at the chance to solidify her position. She moved behind Charlie as he stepped forward to take the folders, and placed a hand, seductively, possessively on his near shoulder.

"Thanks," said Charlie, a bit flustered. "Amita, this is Julia." He glanced at Julia. "Amita is a fellow faculty member; she's helping me out with something for Don."

Amita murmured a wary greeting, and Julia smiled graciously, reveling in the other woman's obvious discomfort. "Pleased to meet you."

"Well, then, if that's all-," Amita began, turning toward the door.

"Actually," Charlie said, with just a hint of embarrassment, "Colby just dropped off another stack of data that needs to be added to the analysis. If you wouldn't mind -,"

Amita set her shoulders and turned back to face them; and Charlie stepped forward to pick up a box full of folders. "Of course," she said evenly as he handed it to her. "I have a couple of grad students entering the data, it's not a problem. When do you need it?"

"I'm meeting with Don on Wednesday at noon. Any time before that."

Amita nodded and turned to go, but not before she caught Julia stepping up behind Charlie and snaking an arm over his chest. The woman apparently couldn't keep her hands off him. The vision stuck with her as she trudged down the hall with the box. Charlie, with an obviously infatuated bombshell – an impossibly gorgeous woman who was all over him. The picture served to make him look irresistible. "Wow," she said, and shook her head, trying to get her mind around it. Maybe she shouldn't have broken up with him. If she hadn't, maybe she would have her arms around something other than a cardboard box.

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Charlie pulled up in front of Julia's house with a sigh. He had been trying for the last few days to figure out how to take the relationship to the next level. The physical part of it was perfect; beyond perfect, but Charlie had gotten to the point where he felt they should be working on more than that. He had tried to talk Julia into other activities, into going out, but to no avail. Even though they had "traditionally" dated for the first week, including the concert he had told Don about, as soon as the sex had started, that had stopped. She was a homebody, she had said, with a seductive smile. When he pushed the issue, she had actually seemed a little offended, and he backed off.

He had given in again today; they planned on staying in tonight. At the very least, tonight they would talk, he thought. In fact, tonight they should just talk. Have dinner, wine, and a conversation. Surely they had enough in common that they could do without the bedroom for a night.

He picked up the bottle of wine with resolve. No matter how irresistible she was, tonight he would be strong, rise above it. She would no doubt respect him for it. Respect was a first and necessary step toward love, a step that he desperately wanted her to take, because he was already there. He had been there for days, maybe weeks. It was about time she caught up.

Her house was a small neat bungalow on a quiet street. There was a good-sized box on the front porch, and he glanced at it absently as he rang the bell. He should carry it in for her. She answered the door almost immediately, dressed in a clingy low cut top that showed off her soft curves, and he swallowed hard. He had to be strong, to stay the course. She smiled, and he wrenched his eyes to her face and smiled back, handing her the bottle of wine. "Hold this," he said, "and I'll get the box."

"Oh, that's okay," she protested, but he put up a hand, and bent to lift it. It was extremely heavy, and he struggled to get upright. "Workout equipment," she said, by way of explanation, and held the door open for him.

Her house was a simple little ranch. The living room opened up to the right, and in the back corner behind it was a small dining room. Straight ahead was a doorway that led to a hallway that went left to the bedrooms, and opened on the right to the kitchen. Julia had two bedrooms, one of which Charlie had never seen; she called it her junk room, and told him it was too messy for him to look at. That was where he headed with the box. "You want this in the junk room?" he asked, panting.

She darted ahead of him, and laid a hand protectively on the doorknob, wiping a flash of panic from her face. "That's okay, I'll take it," she said, lifting the box easily from him, wine bottle still in her hand. She turned and set it in the hallway next to the door, as he wiped the sweat from his brow. "If I put it in that room, I'll never find it again," she said, with a rueful smile. She put an arm around him and gently turned him toward the kitchen. "Dinner's almost ready."

Dinner was delicious, but Charlie was only dimly aware of it. His attention was completely consumed by her; he listened enraptured to her voice, drinking in the green depths of her eyes. The conversation was light, and came easily, and he was suddenly optimistic about the evening. Wine, music, and conversation. They could do this.

After cleaning up, they sat on the sofa, and Julia moved next to him, playing seductively with the buttons on his shirt. He set his wine glass down, and closed his hand over hers. "How about we just talk tonight?" he said, with a smile.

A flash of rage tore through her, but she hid it with a smile of her own. Was he insinuating that she was some kind of a slut, not worthy of him? No one rejected her advances, no one. Not Don Eppes; and certainly not his brother. She pouted a little, and smiled at him through it. "It's just that last night was so wonderful -," she paused suggestively, and then brushed her lips against his.

"It was," he agreed softly. "But don't you think it's time we got to know each other better?" He looked at her arm. The sleeve had crept down, revealing a scar. "You can tell me how you got that, for instance. We can talk about how we grew up." Her silence unnerved him a bit and he looked up at her face, searching for an expression.

She smiled back at him, hiding her rising anger. "Sure," she said softly. "Let me refill our glasses." She snagged his from the table and went into the kitchen, pulling a packet from a canister, fingering it as the rage built up inside her.

A new drug had hit the streets recently; a jazzed up version of the date rape drug Rohipnol. Word on the street was that "J-Rock" produced the same blackout and loss of memory as Rohipnol, but that it guaranteed a sexual response in the user, whether they were aware of what they were doing or not. The downside was that it produced gastrointestinal bleeding with repeated use, and had reportedly already been responsible for several deaths. Like any new sex toy, Julia had to have it. She hadn't tried it on anyone yet; she hadn't had the need. Until tonight.

'_How dare he refuse me?_' she thought, trembling with rage. She tore the packet open angrily and poured it into his glass, and filled them both with wine. She took a deep breath, and a feline smile curved her lips. Perhaps this was for the better. Sex tonight would be anything but conventional – he wouldn't remember a thing. Still smiling, she returned to the living room, handing him his glass, and curled up on the sofa next to him. "So, what do you want to talk about?" she purred.

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Charlie awoke with a moan. His head was pounding and his stomach was on fire. He lifted his head, which was a huge mistake, and laid it back down on the pillows gingerly. How much wine did he drink, anyway? He glanced over at the alarm clock and groaned. He had class in an hour. Julia was already up and gone.

He gritted his teeth and pushed himself up to a sitting position. He hurt all over. What in the heck had happened? he wondered. They were talking, having a glass of wine, just as he had planned. How had he ended up in her bedroom again? He was disgusted with himself. '_No willpower whatsoever,' _he muttered angrily, as he rose and tried to make his way toward the bathroom. At the doorway he paused, his head spinning. If this didn't clear up by the time he was out of the shower, he would need to cancel class.

Somehow, he made it through the shower, and found some extra clothes that he had left there. By the time he was dressed, and downed some coffee, the world was beginning to right itself. He made it out to his car on shaky legs, and got to class five minutes before it started. It was the longest class he could ever remember teaching.

As the day wore on his head cleared, but he still felt stiff and achy and his stomach felt like it had become home to a set of razor blades. His back in particular felt odd; sore and stiff. He tried calling Julia, but kept getting her voice mail, and by the end of the day he had gotten no reply, and was in a foul mood. He dragged himself home at dinnertime, just as his brother pulled up in his SUV.

Don slid out of the vehicle and shut the door, and turned to watch his brother climb stiffly out of his car. His brother had looked better, Don thought; taking in the dark circles under his eyes and stubble on his face. "Hey, Chuck, how's it going?" he called, trying to keep his voice light.

Charlie sighed and frowned as he lifted his briefcase out of the car. "Long day."

Don grinned and fell in beside him as they made their way up the walk. "Long night, you mean," he jabbed, slapping his brother on the back. "Dad tells me you've been burning the candle at both ends.'

Charlie winced and caught his breath at the blow. "Yeah. I think the wine was the culprit last night."

"Tell me about it," said Don. "I didn't have wine, but I feel like I did." He rubbed his forehead. "I've got a roaring headache. Trying to juggle too many cases at once." They had reached the door, and he trailed Charlie inside. "Speaking of which, do you have that analysis on the robberies yet?"

"Tomorrow," said Charlie, heading for the stairs. "We're meeting tomorrow, remember?" He set his briefcase down and stumped up the stairs. He needed aspirin, and a more comfortable shirt, and then he was going to try Julia again. He pulled out a clean T-shirt, and started to strip off his shirt, then thought better of it. His back was killing him. He went into the bathroom, and pushed the door closed.

He grabbed the aspirin bottle from the medicine cabinet and tossed two of them down, grimacing as he swallowed. Pulling off his shirt, he turned, craning his neck to look in the bathroom mirror, and his mouth dropped open in shock. His back was covered with bruises and nasty scratches, which looked like they had been generated by fingernails. He was staring at them, confused and a bit sickened, when the door swung open.

"Oh, sorry Charlie, I was looking for aspirin…," Don's voice trailed off, and they both froze for an instant, and then Charlie whirled to face him, turning his back away. For just a moment, their faces registered identical expressions of shock, and then Charlie reached out to shut the door.

"I'll be out in a minute," he said weakly, and fumbled for his T-shirt. He couldn't imagine what his brother was thinking. For that matter, he wasn't sure what he was thinking. He needed to call Julia, and he definitely needed to get out of the house. He couldn't sit through dinner with his brother, not after that. As he burst out of the bathroom, he could hear his cell phone ring, and he flew into his room and picked it up off the bed.

"_Charlie_," Julia's voice came over the line. "_Charlie, we need to talk_."

END, Chapter 3


	4. Been There, Done That

**Title: ****Julia**

**Chapter 4: ****Been There, Done That**

Don sat beside Liz in the darkened theater and thought again how lucky he was that she had transferred back here when she had. They were definitely taking it slow, and he, at least, was really trying to get this right, this time. His history with relationships wasn't exactly stellar, even before that psycho bitch eight months ago showed up.

He shivered a little, thinking of Jessica, and Liz pressed a little harder into his side. "Cold?" she whispered, eyes still glued to the screen.

Don squeezed her hand. "Just stay where you are now," he whispered back, "and I'll be fine." In the dim light, he could just see her smile in response.

He redirected his own attention to the movie, but it was pretty much lost on him, now. He just kept seeing the bombshell trying to steal the last orange from him. He hadn't even wanted it that badly, but his body had reacted to her immediately, and he had pretended he did. Their conversation in the produce section soon led to one of the wildest nights of sex he had ever experienced – and that was saying something. When he had been a young man on the road with the Stockton Rangers, he had soon discovered that the Susan Sarandon movie, _Eight Men Out_, wasn't much of an exaggeration. Plus, he had been in law enforcement for years. The ladies did love a man in uniform, whether it be minor league baseball; or cuffs, a badge, and a holster. Before he left her place the next morning, they had another date.

Miniature golf had been postponed when he had to work late, and by the time they got together again a few days later, his mind had reasserted control over his body. He found, during the game, that while he was still madly attracted to her physically, he was not all that impressed with anything else. He knew by now that he wanted something more than sex in a relationship. Well, actually, what he wanted was a _relationship_. He wasn't a 20-year-old frat boy, and he wasn't traveling the circuit anymore. He was a grown man who still harbored hopes for a family, someday. Truth be told, nothing would make him happier than giving his father the grandchildren he regularly hinted at – Don finally wanted a woman he could spend the rest of his life with, not just the rest of the night. Maybe it was watching Charlie and Amita draw closer and closer to the inevitable; maybe it was simply the aging process; maybe it didn't matter what it was.

In the end, he had been saved from willing his mind to rule over his body that night when he was summoned to another crime scene. It was the first time in a long time he had been happy to interrupt his off-hours.

Jessica had been persistent, calling him and backing him into a corner until he agreed to a third date. He told himself he was only going to tell her he didn't think it would work out between them. He chose a popular restaurant and planned a public dumping, hoping she wouldn't choose to do something embarrassing like cry, with so many witnesses around.

As fate would have it, Don avoided even that. The afternoon of the evening of their date, Charlie had showed up at the office – drunk, at 2:00 in the afternoon. Don's surprise at that picture was dimmed only by his instinctual sympathy for his brother when he found out what had led to the uncharacteristic behavior. Charlie had bought a ring, and asked Amita to marry him. – She had not only said 'No', she had broken everything off, entirely. The poor kid was devastated, and Don was not making an excuse when he called Jessica and said he had to take care of his brother.

Charlie had been in the men's room at the Bureau throwing up when Don made the call, and he hung up hastily when he heard his brother's body hit the floor, so Don escaped without making another date. In the days that followed, though, she was relentless.

Although he had never told her exactly where he worked – just that he was in law enforcement – somehow, she had tracked him down. She sent flowers and pizza to the office. She left messages on his Bureau voice mail when he didn't respond to the ones left on his cell phone, and they became more and more bizarre in nature. She spoke as if they had been dating for years and he had just taken to ignoring her, not like they had just met three weeks ago and had exactly 1.5 dates. When he dragged himself wearily into his apartment one night after almost 24 hours on the job, and found her inside cooking dinner, Don knew this woman was even crazier than she was beautiful.

He had never told her where he lived, either, and it was apparent that she must have been following him. Politeness thrown to the winds, Don informed her in no uncertain terms that she had crossed all the lines, and that he never wanted to see her again. Embarrassed that he had let this happen to himself, and knowing that it would get back to the Bureau, he had still ended up calling 9-1-1 and having LAPD escort her from his apartment building. The bitch had lunged at him when the cops showed up, dragging her fingernails across his face in a bloody trail, and the officers had encouraged him to press charges.

Instead, Don had avoided his father until his face was healed. Charlie was still too much of a basket case to question the story of a shaving incident. Don had changed his cell phone number, blocked her from his Bureau extension and informed division secretaries to put her on the "cranks" list – and had obtained a restraining order. He had even almost moved, but he would be damned if some crazy bitch would drive him out of his own house. As far as he knew, she had never shown up at the apartment again, or within 500 feet of him, anywhere. Finally, he had met with Merrick and eaten a fair amount of crow.

It had proven even more embarrassing when he had to tell the team, and Liz, what happened. The team he told because he owed it to them; these people had his back in the field and out, and it was only fair that they know what that might entail. When Liz moved to L.A. a few months later and they started seeing each other, Don had told her because he didn't want to start off a real relationship with her by keeping secrets.

Now, in the darkened theater, he let go of her hand temporarily to take the soda out of the cup holder and take a hit. He offered the drink to Liz, but she shook her head, so he replaced it and grabbed her hand, again. This time, she gave his a little squeeze, pressing yet closer, and Don blessed his luck one more time. He determined to stop thinking about that crazy woman. He hadn't seen her in months, and she was part of the past, now.

Like a root canal, she was nothing but a bad memory.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

After sneaking Charlie the "J-Rock" and inflicting what was, for her, just a tiny amount of punishment, Julia had found herself insatiable. An unfortunate side-effect of the drug was that eventually, her victim just passed out – and Julia was not even close to satisfied, yet. She had stood naked over him, tracing circles in blood on his back, and he had somehow transmitted some of his genius to her.

She knew what to do.

It was perfect. She could finally be on the receiving end of the punishment again, a situation she was craving so much she was getting distracted during the daylight hours. Plus, she could use the resulting "evidence" to start the mind games.

So she had dressed quickly, left him unconscious on her bed, and headed for the closest dive she could find. The beating she received had been heavenly. Off-the-charts, since she had denied herself for so long. And now, with Charlie standing on her porch, mouth gaping open, she had to control herself to keep from having an orgasm right there.

"Wh..why did you hurt me, Charlie?", she whispered through her cut and swollen lips.

The color drained from his face and he reached out a hand, but stopped short of touching her black eye. "Oh, my God. Please tell me I didn't do that."

She sniffed mightily and looked at her feet. "I've never seen you like that. I'll admit, at first it was a little exciting…but when I asked you to stop, and you wouldn't…" she broke off in a mighty sob. She lifted a hand to wipe away her tears, making sure it was the one with the bruised knuckles.

Charlie swayed a little on the porch. "Julia, I don't…I don't know what to say. I've never…God. I'm sorry…."

She didn't want him to run off and curl up in a ball somewhere, so she opened the door a little wider. "It's probably as much my fault as yours. I know a man can't just…stop….once it gets past a certain point. And we were both drinking. Maybe…" – she sniffed again, this time more daintily – "maybe tonight you could just hold me?"

He almost fell into the house, hardly believing she wasn't calling the police, but seemed willing to continue their relationship. Charlie felt terrible. Terrible. He had known they should cool down the sex. She must have scratched and bruised his back trying to fight him off. He was crying himself by the time Julia wrapped her arms around him.

She smiled over his shoulder toward the door of her "junk" room. She began to rock the sobbing man slightly. "Shhh, Charlie," she soothed, "hush, now. It's all right. I forgive you."

END Chapter 4


	5. Hurts Like a Fist to the Gut

**Title: Julia**

**Chapter 5 : ****Hurts Like a Fist to the Gut **

Charlie stared blearily at his face in the rearview mirror. The left side of his jaw was swollen and purple, and it hurt when he opened his mouth. His stomach was riddled with sharp pains; his head was pounding, and he rested it on his steering wheel for a moment. He had woken up yet again at Julia's with no recollection of going to bed, but her bed was where he had found himself this morning. He groaned, frustrated with himself. He thought he had just had a single glass, no more, but things got blurry after that. Why couldn't he remember?

Even worse was the suspicion he had somehow lost it again. He hoped that he had stumbled and hit his face somehow, and the bruise wasn't a result of something that Julia had to do to – God, he could hardly say it – defend herself. He shuddered in revulsion as he remembered what she had told him when he had arrived the night before, as he saw her poor bruised face. How could he have done that? He had heard a person describe someone as a mean drunk once. He certainly never would have thought of himself that way – for that matter a few days ago he wouldn't have described himself as any kind of drunk. He hardly ever drank to the point of getting inebriated – the day Amita had left him was the only time since grad school -- and now two days in a row he couldn't remember the night before, and had woken up sick.

Thank God, he had no classes today. His advanced students, who made up his Wednesday classes, were attending a seminar given by a visiting professor; one Charlie had planned on attending himself, but that plan was now out the window. Even apart from the fact that he looked like a prizefighter, he felt awful, and hadn't managed to crawl out of bed until ten, well after the seminar had started. It was now after eleven, and he somehow had to muster the strength to go meet with Don.

He dreaded the thought. He could imagine what his brother would have to say about his face, especially after seeing his back last evening. The worst part of it was; Charlie had no idea what to tell him. "_Gee, Don I don't know. You see, I've been having these blackouts…__ Oh. And I've discovered that I beat women._"

He shook his head morosely, immediately regretting the movement, and started the car. He needed to meet Don at noon, and he had a twenty minute ride ahead of him.

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Julia sat in a back booth in the café across from the FBI building. She had on dark glasses to cover the black eye, and slouched behind the menu trying to hide her face. She felt like a spy, and it made her giggle. If everything went as planned, she thought with satisfaction, by the end of today Don's brother would hate him. And at the end of it all, they would both be hating life. She glanced at the clock and her smile died as she realized how close it was to noon. Timing was everything. She needed Don to get here before Charlie did, to pull this off. Perhaps she could stall Charlie, just a bit…

She pulled out her cell phone, and hit Charlie's number. She heard him answer, and smiled. So she hadn't knocked him unconscious after all. It had been hard to tell when he passed out whether it was from the dose of J-rock, or from the blow to his jaw. "Charlie," she said; one eye on the door. "where are you?"

"_I'm on my way to a meeting. Actually, I'm pulling into a parking space."_

Ooh, she thought, not good. Don's not here yet. "Look, Charlie, about last night - I'm sorry I pushed you, but you got a little rough." Her comment was met with silence on the other end, and her lips curled into a smile as she imagined the expression on his face. Shocked, disgusted with himself, just like last night. She loved playing with his mind. His beautiful mind.

There was long pause; then she heard_, "Are you okay?"_

Time to move in for the kill. "A little bruised."She sniffed artfully into the receiver. "Charlie, this really isn't going to work. I can't trust you. And to tell you the truth, things are heating up again with my old boyfriend. It's been with a fun ride, but I really think we need to end this." She had her eye on the window, and with relief she saw Don approaching the door.

There was silence on the other end; then a tortured voice spoke. "_Julia – please, you need to think about this. I'm not sure what's going on with the drinking myself, but I'll just stop. I've never been a big drinker-"_

Julia lost part of the rest of what he said as she ducked behind her menu. Don came in and was shown by the waitress to a seat in a booth sideways to the door. The positioning couldn't have been any more perfect. "Look, I have to go," she said, cutting off whatever Charlie was saying. "My boyfriend just walked in." She clicked the phone shut.

Her adrenaline was pumping. She only would have one shot at this- she wouldn't be able to afford another public encounter with Don, considering the restraining order. She would wait just a minute or two for Charlie to collect himself and come in from the parking lot.

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Charlie groaned and leaned his head against the headrest, closing his eyes. His day had gone from terrible to unbearable. He was losing her – perhaps had already lost her. "_No_," he thought to himself, "_I won't let that happen. It's not over yet. I need to prove myself, but I can convince her. I have to." _He swallowed hard, lifted his head and opened his eyes. He needed to get inside. Don was probably waiting for him.

He opened the car door, and got out stiffly, and the movement sent a knifelike pain through his gut that nearly took his breath away. He leaned against car for a moment, breathing heavily, and his eyes fell on the files in the passenger seat. He had planned on bringing one of them in with him, but it suddenly seemed like too much effort to retrieve it. Forget the file. He would wing it, get this meeting over with somehow, and head home to bed. Pulling himself away from the car, he shut the door, and headed for the café entrance on unsteady feet.

Julia rose from her seat, and moved slowly toward Don. She had come up behind him in the aisle along the booths, just as she saw Charlie through the window. She waited for Charlie to open the door, and watched him stop dead out of the corner of her eye. She knew from the look on his face he had seen her. Time to move. She sashayed up behind Don and placed a kiss on his cheek. Don turned to look at her in surprise, and when he did, she knew that Charlie had seen his brother's face by the stunned look on his own.

Her knees went suddenly weak with pleasure, and she slid into the opposite seat in the booth with a smile. From her vantage point, she could see Don's face directly in front of her, full of surprise and mistrust, and over his shoulder she could see Charlie's look of shock and pain. Priceless. For a split second the image held, and she wished she could somehow take a picture. Then Charlie turned and stumbled out of the door, almost knocking over a middle-aged woman in his haste. '_Ye_s' she thought. She turned her smile up to full wattage and looked into Don's eyes.

Don found his voice. He glared at her, feeling his skin crawl as he remembered her kiss. The woman was obviously deranged; she didn't seem the least bit concerned that she was about to be arrested, and was gazing at him with a smug smile. He spoke harshly. "Jessica. Don't the words restraining order mean anything to you?"

"I really am sorry," she purred. Not. She began to rise. "I just never expected to see you here. I acted impulsively – I'll just leave now." She slipped out of the booth, dodging his grasp and headed for the door.

Don was after her in a flash, and caught her just outside the door. She almost moaned in pleasure as he caught her arm in a viselike grip. She looked up at him and smiled. "What are you going to do to me, G-man?"

Don scowled at her. "Make sure you stay put until an officer gets here." The café was frequented by law enforcement officials; there was a good chance that one L.A. finest was near. If not, he would call for one. He scanned the street as he reached for his cell phone, then frowned, his attention captured by a familiar figure moving away from him, about halfway down the block. The man's back was turned, but from the size and the hair it had to be Charlie.

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Charlie staggered down the sidewalk, one arm folded around his midsection. He was unable to think, unable to hear, virtually unable to see. He careened off other pedestrians and street light poles like a drunken eight-ball on a possessed pool table. His gut, which had bothered him all day, now roiled and boiled beneath his hand, and he stumbled, a groan escaping his lips. He felt so bad physically, he thought he might die; and having just seen that his only brother was the competition for the woman he loved, Charlie didn't care right now if he _did_ die.

He shrugged off hands that grabbed at him, and didn't hear voices that shouted warning. Lurching across an intersection in mind-numbing pain, Charlie didn't even hear the screeching of the tires, or the blaring of the horn, before the car hit him.

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Don had glanced back at Jessica for a moment, almost absently, and then looked back down the block. His eyes narrowed as he watched Charlie carom off of a light pole and turn and head toward the curb. Don's mind had just a split second to register the fleeting thought that his brother must have gotten confused, and thought they were meeting at the FBI building. It was mixed with another thought, just as brief, that there was something wrong with his brother – from the way he was staggering, he looked drunk. Those thoughts barely had time to flash through his brain before they were replaced with the horrific realization that his brother was about to step into the path of an oncoming car.

Julia caught his look and turned, just in time to see Charlie's body fly over the hood of a vehicle and smash into the windshield. Her mouth dropped open, and she barely registered the fact that Don had released her arm and was sprinting down the sidewalk.

This was beyond her wildest dreams. The sight of Charlie's body sliding off the vehicle and crumpling to the ground sent searing pleasure through her. She watched Don stop before he reached his brother, then suddenly stagger sideways himself and vomit in the street, and the feeling rose and engulfed her in a wave of sensual ecstasy that left her gasping and leaning against the building for support. So much pain – it was too good to be believed.

She took a deep breath, trying to recover, and with a quick glance around her, she collected herself and moved away up the sidewalk, against the stream of curious onlookers that were heading toward the accident. Her only hope was that Charlie wasn't dead. That would put just a little kink in her plans.

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Charlie lay stunned, immobile. His entire left side was engulfed in pain, and he stared dazedly up at the buildings and the sky above him. The thought came to him dimly that he was lying in the street, and he needed to move before something else hit him. He struggled to push himself up, and as he did, the bones in his broken left arm shifted. The resulting wave of agony sent his world into a spin, and was the last thing he felt before he descended into blackness.

END Chapter 5


	6. Rock and Roll

**Title: ****Julia**

**Chapter 6: ****Rock and Roll**

Charlie was fortunate that one of the surrounding pedestrians had been a doctor, and that he was having an affair with his nurse. Hell, it was 2007 -- maybe she was his med student.

That's what Don told himself as they elbowed him away from his brother moments after he had finally reached him, crumpled on the asphalt. Don had fought back at first, unable to differentiate actual words, knowing only that someone was trying to get him away from Charlie. It wasn't until his latent FBI-sense kicked in, and he registered the pale ring of white skin on the man's ring finger, that he sagged back and almost casually observed the way the woman leaned toward the doctor. He must be a doctor -- who the hell else wandered around the city with latex gloves in his pocket? Allowing someone to pull him back a little further -- Don was never quite sure who -- he almost took out his interview book and noted the medical jargon the two strangers shot back-and-forth, their perfectly meshed teamwork, the tiny first-aid kit that came out of her purse, and the fact that he could see a stethoscope crammed in there, too.

By the time Don managed to pull himself together enough to remember that these people were working on his brother, who had just stepped in front of a car, EMTs were loading him onto a gurney. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs. He had not even seen them arrive.

Whoever had been holding him back had loosened his grip a little, and Don tried to get closer to Charlie. He seemed to be having some difficulty walking himself, and he flashed on the image of Charlie staggering down the sidewalk earlier. He wondered again why his brother was downtown, drunk, in the middle of the day. Surely he had not been drinking like this ever since the break-up with Amita? Why would he continue, now that he was involved with someone else?

Don heard Charlie gasp with pain, and his own pulse stopped as he answered with a groan. "Please," he begged bystanders who had somehow ended up between them. "Please, my brother, please..." Someone registered his plea and took pity on him, moving slightly and making room, but Don groaned again as he met another roadblock. The EMTs were taking the doctor in the ambulance with them, and did not have room for Don. Nor did they have time to placate him. They rushed Charlie away from him and barely took the time to toss the name of their destination back over their shoulders.

Don stood, desolate. He watched the crowd slowly dissipate, and felt like a complete fool. He was a trained professional, for God's sake. He had dealt with shootings in the field, he had umpteen first aid and CPR certifications himself. He had stopped at an automobile accident on the freeway, once, and assisted as a private citizen. He could not wrap his mind around the fact that who the victim was made such a huge difference. How was it that a few, brief, seconds of watching Charlie fly over the hood had effectively emptied his own brain?

And what the hell was he supposed to do now?

Don felt a hand on his arm, and wondered how long it had been there. He gazed down with his shell-shocked, dark eyes, and met the compassionate gray ones of the nurse. Med student. Slut. Whatever.

"I can give you a ride to the Trauma Center," she offered. "He's your brother, right?"

Don nodded dumbly. He had long-ago forgotten about Jessica, or work, or exactly what his own name was. "My brother's hurt," he whispered, and he let her lead him to a Mustang, almost a block away.

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Alan sat down hard.

On the kitchen floor, since he was nowhere near a chair.

Both of his sons? Both of his sons were in the Trauma Center of USC's University Hospital?

How was that possible? How were they even together? Had Don taken Charlie to a crime scene?

He clutched his cell phone hard, crawled to the kitchen table and began to pull himself up with the other hand. No, no, not a crime scene. Hadn't she said something about MVA? Maybe the boys were going to lunch together, or something...but neither one of them had mentioned it.

Alan grabbed his car keys off the counter and raced out the door. He didn't lock it, behind himself. He didn't even close it, but left it gaping open like a wound that would not heal.

Dear God in Heaven.

Both boys.

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She had managed to get home, although it was touch-and-go. She would touch herself, and then go, all the while playing the internal video over and over. Sometimes she would let the entire reel play out, but usually she hit the "REW" or "FF", and played the same frames over and over. She couldn't decide which part she liked best.

The look on Charlie's bruised face, when he stood in the doorway of the deli and saw her with Don -- that was priceless. Don's self-righteous anger, his aggressive G-man stance as he roughly grabbed her arm -- well, that spoke for itself. Several times. Then his look of concern and confusion, when he saw his little brother stagger down the sidewalk and step right in front of a car...oh, the humanity. She finally made up her mind about the time she pulled into her driveway. It had to be the footage of the actual accident. Charlie's body shattering and bouncing off the windshield, then catapulting back over the car's hood -- that was worth its weight in orgasms.

In the beginning, Charlie had just been a way to make Don pay, and that was still his main use to her.

It had turned out to be a bonus, the fact that he was so easily manipulated and felt pain so deeply.

Now, she was having way too good a time to stop playing with him.

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Charlie writhed on the exam table, barely feeling his broken arm. His gut was on fire. He felt like a million tiny razor blades had been set loose in there, and he couldn't stop moaning miserably and trying to curl in on himself. Worse, his heart felt as though it had been ripped halfway through his chest wall and left to drip there. Julia had left him. Oh, God, Julia had left him because he was a sick, evil bastard who did not deserve to live. Julia had left him because she was in love with his brother.

He let the tears fall, stretching the IV lines as he clutched at his stomach. His mind whirled, and he only caught the occasional phrase from those who surrounded him. "Ultrasound" and "insisting he see him first" stuck with him. Then he heard someone mention shock, fainting, stitches, and he stopped listening. Eyes wildly roving the room, wishing someone would do something to make the pain stop, his gaze lit upon Don. His brother had a stark white bandage on his forehead, his face was gray and he seemed to be leaning on someone. For a millisecond, before he remembered, Charlie was concerned. When the memories caught up with him, the words tore from his throat as he squeezed his eye shut. "Nooo," he moaned, and grunted against another shard of pain. "Get him 'way...don't want..."

Green scrubs leaned perilously close. "You're refusing to see your brother?"

Charlie nodded, eyes still closed, hissing against the pain in his gut, the pain in his soul. "Hate 'im," he managed to whisper.

Given the activity in the small cubicle, and the volume of Charlie's voice, it was a miracle that Don heard him at all.

His ears had been attuned to his brother's voice for years, though, and the words wisped their way across the room and sunk into his heart. When they did, for the second time in an hour, Don Eppes passed out cold.

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Alan threw his car keys at the Security Guard as if he was a valet and screamed at him to park the damn thing himself. While the surprised man fumbled to catch them and simultaneously stop him, Alan shoved past him and tore through the door. He was relieved when his eyes immediately lit on a receptionist's desk, and he jogged over, the guard jogging behind him, yelling. Alan put out his hands to catch himself on the counter and stop his momentum. "My sons," he gasped at the impassive ward clerk behind the barrier. He seemed unable to say anything more specific.

"Mister, you gotta park yourself, and take the shuttle back to the hospital. I can't do this. Hospital policy." Alan's keys hit the counter next to his shaking hands.

Alan whipped his head around and glared at the wannabe cop. "Sell it, then," he hissed. "Keep the change. I'm not going back out there! _Both_ of my sons are here!"

Alan was still yelling when he heard Don's rich baritone in his other ear. "Dad. I'm all right, they shouldn't have told you I was hurt."

Alan's head whipped around again. His eyes widened, then narrowed, and he took in the bandage on Don's forehead. Not caring whether or not they were a hugging family, he reached out and pulled his oldest son into his arms. "Donnie! Oh, God, Donnie, what happened? Were you and your brother in an accident together?"

"He's parked in a loading zone," the Security Guard whined, interrupting.

Don pulled back and reached into his pocket for his ID and badge, careful to display his service weapon as he did so. He frowned and growled. "He _is_ loading. I'm not being admitted, I'm just waiting for paperwork. Talk to your damn ward clerks if you want the car moved faster."

"Hey…," started the gum-popping clerk, but when Don turned his interrogation stare on her, she thought better of her protest and walked quickly to the other end of the counter, where she began poking with one finger at a computer keyboard. The Security Guard decided that FBI trumped six weeks of on-the-job training any day, and maybe he should just continue his rounds.

Alan didn't even notice that he had left. He raised a hand to Don's temple, pulling back before he touched the bandage. "What happened?" he repeated.

Don sighed, too despondent and disturbed to even attempt coming up with a story. "It's nothing. A few stitches. I passed out, and hit the edge of a counter on the way down…. Dad, Charlie…"

Alan paled. "What about Charlie? The woman who called me said 'MVA'. Why did you pass out? Are you sick?"

Don leaned against the receptionist's counter. "Dad, Charlie and I were meeting for lunch, to go over a case. I was on the sidewalk outside the café, and I saw him…. I saw him walk right in front of a car. He was hit by a car. I don't…I can't…."

Alan reached out again and gripped Don's arm, hard. He wasn't really sure who needed steadying more; him, or Don. He finally decided it was the hospital. The walls and floor were undulating so much, California must be having an earthquake.

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Half an hour later, the two sat in the family waiting area of the trauma center. Alan had finally moved the car, but only when it became apparent that Don was going to go do it himself if he didn't. Now, for the third time, Alan studied his son's face and asked the same question. "What happened?"

"I don't know," Don answered truthfully. "He may have forgotten we were meeting at the café, and not the office -- it looked like he was headed toward the FBI building. I was in front of the café, and I saw him walking away from me, down the block. He turned suddenly and just stepped out into the street, in front of a car." He swallowed bile as the scene rose in front of him again.

Alan stared at him. "Just stepped out -- you mean he didn't look, at all?"

Don shook his head, and looked at Alan with chagrin. "Dad, he was walking kind of funny – it almost looked like he was drunk. He sure wasn't looking where he was going, I know that."

Alan tried to digest that information, silently. His younger son had spent a total of twenty minutes at home over the last two days, and not much more in the days before that. He had stopped in the day before at around dinnertime, arriving with Don, and was out of the house a few moments later, after changing into a T-shirt. He hadn't even bothered to come home after that; he had spent yet another night at Julia's. If his son was drinking, Alan reflected, he wouldn't know; he had very little idea of what was going in Charlie's life right now. The thought did nothing to comfort him.

Don suddenly started to stand, staring intently ahead, and Alan followed his eyes and saw familiar green scrubs approaching. Maybe this was Charlie's doctor! Sure enough, the man smiled somewhat grimly, but with familiarity at Don, and increased his pace a little. Alan was on his feet beside his son by the time the man arrived.

"How are you feeling?" he greeted, eyeing Don's bandage. "Fainting twice in rapid succession like that, I wouldn't be surprised if you have quite a headache. Frankly, I still think you should be in an exam room yourself."

Alan looked quickly at his son. "Twice?"

Don waved a hand in the air as if the information was an annoying mosquito. "I'm fine. It was just…shock, I guess. Dad, this is Charlie's trauma attending, Dr. Ellison. This is our father, Alan."

Dr. Ellison offered a hand and Alan automatically shook it. "How are my sons?" he demanded, raising his eyebrows at Don. "_Both_ of them."

The doctor smiled again. "This one is fine," he assured. "I'm sure his assessment is correct. It must have been very shocking, witnessing the accident, and then Charlie's behavior here in the Trauma Center. I would suggest that he take it easy for a while, and not be alone, tonight. He never lost consciousness, nor did he have any other signs of a concussion, so neuro checks aren't necessary." He winked at Alan, trying to put the older man at ease a little. "Large quantities of chicken soup are, however."

Alan actually cracked a smile, and Dr. Ellison continued. "Charlie's left arm is fractured, but it's a clean break and we expect it to heal well without surgery. We'll want to wait for the swelling to subside before applying a hard cast, so we've put a soft splint on for a few days. There are also, of course, several lacerations and abrasions. A few required stitches, and he will be sore and have difficulty moving, for a few days. All-in-all, considering that witnesses said he stepped in front of a moving vehicle, your son is extremely lucky." He looked down at the open chart in his hand, frowned slightly, snapped it shut and looked away from Don and Alan.

Alan pounced. "What? What else? What?"

Dr. Ellison's eyes traveled back to his and he sighed. One hand crept up to rub his neck, and he sighed again. Finally, he spoke. "Your son presented with some…other issues. I have discussed those with him, thoroughly, and made several referrals. At this point, I can only remind you that he is an adult, and he has requested that no information about those issues be shared with any family member."

Alan's brow wrinkled and Don put his hands on his hips. "What? Are you sure Charlie said that?"

Dr. Ellison nodded. "Quite. These…other issues are significant, and I would like to admit Charlie for treatment. He's refusing that, however, and demanding to be released AMA."

Alan shook his head. "Well, no. Of course if you say he should stay, he should stay. Let me talk to him."

The doctor nodded, looked around, briefly, then suddenly offered the chart to Don. "Perhaps you would be so kind as to take this to the Ward Clerk behind the desk? I'll show your father to Charlie's exam room. You remember where it is? You can join us there in a few minutes? I can _trust_ you to do what's in Charlie's best interests, correct?"

It took Don a second to understand what Dr. Ellison was doing. When he did, he snatched the chart and flashed the man a look of pure gratitude. Alan watched the exchange, and didn't say a word.

Don watched Dr. Ellison take Alan's upper arm gently, and begin to steer him down the corridor. It was only when they were safely at least 20 feet away that he shrugged off his jacket, draped it over the chart, and made a beeline for the other side of the waiting room, and the men's restroom. While the door swung shut behind him, he hurried for the stall farthest away from it. Swiftly, he locked himself inside, leaned against the door, and opened the chart.

He scanned through a few pages of readings and charts, and got to the doctor's notes. His eyes brushed over the description of the accident injuries, which seemed to fit with what the doctor had just told them, and came to rest on a paragraph at the end: "_Possible victim of abuse. Exam showed various bruises and lacerations to torso, face and arms, inconsistent with the injuries from the accident. Tox screen showed evidence of Rohipnol and attendant modifiers, including amphetamine, indicating presence of street drug J-rock. Also present was vomiting of blood, consistent with gastrointestinal bleeding from said drug. Patient denied when confronted."_

Don stood for a moment, frozen in shock, his mind reeling. He looked again at the chart for the patient name, in disbelief. This had to be someone else's chart. 'Charles Eppes,' it read, in clear print, and as the information registered, the memory of his accidental glimpse of his brother's back returned. Not only was Charlie involved in some kind of abuse, he was hiding it from them. He flipped the chart shut and leaned his head back against the stall door for a few seconds, closing his eyes. There was no way that he was going to let this continue.

Finally, he draped his jacket over the chart again and left the restroom. He could see several people at the receptionist's desk, as upset as Alan had been earlier. No wonder she had seemed bored; she must have long ago developed some sort of immunity to patient's families. Don casually approached the counter and leaned against it, as far away from her as she could. While she tried to placate the upset group, he rested his jacketed arm on the counter and leaned over, pretending to need support while he brushed off a leg of his jeans. Slowly, he straightened back up, bringing his arm away from the counter and leaving the chart there. Without looking back toward the clerk, he strode purposefully in the direction his father and Dr. Ellison had gone.

He hadn't been an FBI agent for nearly 15 years and picked up nothing along the way. He soon was out of sight around a corner, and no-one had noticed his sleight-of-hand.

As he approached the door to Charlie's room, he saw the doctor step out, grimly shaking his head, followed by Alan, who was backing out hastily, closing the door behind him.

Don frowned. "What's going on?"

Alan face mirrored the confusion, with an added dose of consternation. "He's still going to leave the hospital against medical advice. I couldn't make him listen to sense at all. He told us to get out so he could dress. He's – unreasonable. He's seems highly upset about something."

The doctor looked at them. "Someone needs to be with him for the next 24 hours, whether he likes it or not. It would be much better if he stayed here – but you know that already."

Don glanced at Alan, taking in the bewilderment and anxiety on his father's face, wondering how much more anxious he would be if he knew the whole story. "I'll talk to him," he said, his mouth set in a tight line. "I might as well try."

"Good idea," Alan nodded, stepping aside so that Don could enter the exam room. Don pushed inside, pausing almost immediately in shock, so that the door hit him as it closed.

Charlie had managed to get into his boxers, but Don had a clear view of the rest of his body. He was covered in bruises and cuts – some from the accident, Don knew, but many of the others looked a day or two old, and had already turned dark. Charlie was moving stiffly, his arm out of the sling, turned partially away, and hadn't heard him come in.

"Charlie." Don spoke sternly, and Charlie turned in surprise.

The surprise was replaced by a combined look of misery and anger. "What in the hell are you doing in here?" Charlie snapped. "Get out."

Don was a little taken aback by the furious look that Charlie directed at him, but he composed himself and replied, as anger of his own began to surface. "What do you think you're doing? The doctor is recommending that you stay here."

Charlie turned away, struggling with his jeans. "Yeah, well, forget it," he muttered, his jaw clenched in anger and pain.

Don scowled. "Charlie, I have no idea what you have going on, but you need to get your head on straight. You need to get the hell out of that relationship."

Charlie faced him furiously. "Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you? Well, I have news for you - I'm not going anywhere. You may have been able to get away with this in high school, but I'm not thirteen anymore. There is no way I'm giving her up."

Don's face registered a combination of bewilderment, anger and disgust. "That's sick."

"It wouldn't be sick, if you weren't involved," yelled Charlie. "Just get the hell out. Get out of this room, get out of my life!"

Don looked at him in anger and disbelief for a moment, shaking his head, and then turned abruptly, flung open the door, and stalked down the hall. Alan had heard the exchange through the door, and he stood in stunned silence, his head swiveling between his sons, wondering what on earth was going on.

END, Chapter 6


	7. There's Got to be More to this Story

**Title: ****Julia**

**Chapter 7: There's Got to Be More to This Story**

Don stepped out of the cab in front of the FBI building; his mind whirling. He stood absently on the sidewalk for a moment, Charlie's angry words playing through his head. What in the hell was going on? Charlie was obviously furious with him, but for what?

He would have thought that it was because he had tried to tell him what to do, but Charlie was upset before Don attempted to lecture him on his relationship. It was evident even in the emergency room, when Charlie was only half conscious and in pain, that he was angry. More than angry; he was furious. '_Hate 'im.'_ Charlie's slurred words ran in his head again, and the memory felt like physical punch to the gut.

He shook his head, trying to make sense out of their conversation in Charlie's hospital room. Charlie had said something about not being thirteen – what in the hell did that mean? It was almost as if he was talking about something else…Don groaned, and rubbed his temple. There was something, right there in front of him, and he couldn't see it. He stared at the street idly; then suddenly straightened. A cab had pulled up, and a familiar figure had climbed slowly out of it. Charlie. He had thought his brother would go home with Dad – what was he doing back here?

Don mentally snapped his fingers. His car. He had come back for his car. Charlie had not seen him in the mix of people on the sidewalk, and seemed to be intent on the road in front of him. He watched his brother cautiously cross the street, looking both ways twice this time, before he limped his way across, and then watched him head toward the café. Don would bet good money that he knew where his brother was going.

He glanced briefly around him. There was no time to get his SUV out of the parking garage. Another cab pulled in front of the building, disgorging a hefty man in a navy suit, and Don darted forward, hailing it. Inside, he flipped open his badge. "I want you to follow a blue car," he directed. "Just wait until I tell you."

The cab driver was a skinny man with Rastafarian dread locks. He beamed, showing off a gold tooth. "Cool mon," he replied. "Jus' like de movies."

Don waited until he saw Charlie's small blue car pull past, then gave the driver direction to move. He hoped his hunch was right. It was about time that he met this Julia.

It took about twenty minutes to get to a neat subdivision with small, tidy bungalows. Charlie pulled down a street named Wickford, and parked halfway down the block. Don had the cab driver hang way back and pull over at the end of the street, but he was close enough to see his brother approach a house and knock on the door. It was too far away to make out a house number, and Don frowned. Wickford. Something about the name sounded familiar, but Don couldn't place it. He had never been here, of that he was sure.

Charlie was still at the door; there was obviously no one home. He watched as his brother turned and then suddenly swung back and hit the door with his fist in frustration. Whoever this woman was, she had certainly gotten into Charlie's head – not to mention his heart, unfortunately. Don's gut clenched as his brother turned away from the door and then leaned over, his good hand on his knee. Was he going to pass out? He breathed a small sigh of relief as Charlie straightened again, and headed for his car, slowly, and got in.

He waited until the blue car pulled down to the end of the block and turned before he had the cab driver creep down the street, his eye on the house that Charlie had just left, picking up the house number. 942. At the end of the street, he told the driver to turn the opposite direction and head back to the office. The man looked a trifle disappointed; he had apparently been hoping for a little more excitement.

As the cab driver turned the corner, he punched in his father's cell phone number. "Dad? It's Don." He listened to a tinny tirade for a moment. "I know Charlie took off without you, I just followed him to his girlfriend's house. I think he might be on his way back home. If he's not there in a few minutes call me back."

Pause. "Yeah, I know, I'm trying to figure it out myself. Hey Dad, what is Julia's last name? Stilson? Is that with one L or two?" He listened for a moment. "Okay, never mind, it doesn't matter. No, just curious. I'll talk to you later. Call me if Charlie doesn't show, okay?" He snapped the phone shut, and leaned back in the seat. Time to do a little research on Julia Stilson.

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Charlie limped into the house. He hurt all over; his stomach felt like someone was repeatedly scoring it with knife, and his arm throbbed fiercely, but none of it compared to the agony in his heart. His own brother. The two of them had been meeting behind his back – probably laughing all the while. It was like senior year all over again, only magnified a million times. When Don had taken his prom date, it had been a single date with a girl that he had had a crush on – that was painful enough. This was unimaginably worse. This was the woman he loved, and Don knew it. And apparently, couldn't care less.

His father darted out of the kitchen as he dragged himself into the living room, and immediately began asking anxious questions. "Charlie, what on earth were you thinking; taking off like that? You shouldn't be out of the hospital, much less driving around by yourself."

Charlie took a deep breath. A lecture from his father was the last thing he needed, and he intended to escape up the stairs, but he was feeling suddenly dizzy, and made his way over to the sofa instead. He sank into it wearily and leaned back, closing his eyes.

Alan stood for a moment, puzzling over his son's behavior, and spoke a little more gently. "Charlie, why don't you tell me what's going on?"

Charlie responded without opening his eyes. "Nothing's going on."

"Why were you upset with Donnie?"

'_Oh, maybe because he's a lying, cheating scumbag who stole my girlfriend,'_ thought Charlie, fighting a haze of pain and rage. He ignored the question, studying the back of his eyelids, as questions of his own chased around in his head like a spastic roulette wheel. So many questions – the roulette ball settled on the next one - the doctor's assertion that he had been given some kind drug. J-rock, he had said. Charlie had never heard of it, but he had heard of Rohipnol.

The man had to be mistaken, thought Charlie. Lab tests were only so accurate. Although it perfectly explained the memory loss, he thought, doubt twisting in his gut. But why would she have done that? It wasn't like she had to convince him to come to bed with her. And it apparently turned him into some kind of fiend who beat women. Why would she put up with that…unless she liked it? Charlie pushed the thought away. There had to be a mistake here somehow.

His mind wandered back to the sight of her with Don in the restaurant, as if he needed more mental flogging. Why didn't she tell him her old boyfriend was his brother? How long had they been going out? Why did they stop? When did they start again? The roulette wheel spun pointlessly. He needed to talk to her, but she wasn't home, and she wasn't answering her cell phone.

His father was still talking, and Charlie's face twisted in annoyance. He couldn't handle all of these questions, not now. He didn't know the answer to most of them anyway, and even if he did, it would be the last thing he would want to discuss with his father. He opened his eyes and rose, headed for the stairs. Alan's questioning was pushing him past the point of endurance, and he knew it was just a matter of time before Don showed up. Charlie was getting out of there before he did.

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Julia sat in the hospital parking lot, her mind spinning. She had just found to her surprise that Charlie was no longer there; that he had left against the doctor's advice. AMA, they had called it. She smirked a little; apparently he was tougher than he seemed. That was good – he would last that much longer when she finally got her hands on him. And it was good that he was out; she didn't have to wait to proceed with her plan.

She had spent a bit more time thinking about it, today. She had originally planned to carry it out in her spare room; it was already outfitted with all of her equipment, all of her toys. She had decided, however, that to attempt this in the suburbs was much too dangerous. She would have at least one body to dispose of when she was done, and the noise that they would generate might be heard, even though her spare room was soundproofed. Not to mention the fact that she was dealing with a federal agent, and where there was one, there would be more. No, she would need an alternate location, somewhere more isolated, and she knew just the spot.

She knew how she would get Don there – that would be pitifully easy once he knew that she had Charlie. The trickier part would be getting him there sans his team, and getting her hands on Charlie. She had a lot of work to do to set this up, and her impatience to begin was starting to overwhelm her. She punched in a number on her cell phone, and tapped the wheel fretfully with strong fingers as it rang.

"Markie," she cooed into the receiver at the voice. "Do you know who this is?"

"_Hey girl, what's up?"_

Markie, or as he spelled it, Marquis, a reference to the Marquis de Sade, was known to anyone that participated in the darker side of sex in the L.A. area. Or for that matter, in the entire state of California. No matter what the deviant was into – bondage, sadism, masochism, or other even darker things, Markie had what they needed for their twisted ventures. Drugs, paraphernalia, equipment. He was Julia's source, and a close personal friend.

"Markie, I need a favor. I need to borrow your van."

There was a short silence on the other end. "_What's in it for me, babe?"_

"Now, you know you owe me," she purred, "for the other night. I'm not going to do a job in it; I just need to move some equipment. I'll bring it back as soon as I'm done."

There was another pause, and then a wicked chuckle. "_Well, I guess I do owe you. Damn girl, you were incredible."_

"So were you," she said throatily. "Oh, and I need some more stuff – and maybe some new stuff. You can show me what you have when I come for the van." She was careful not to use the drug names on the phone. Markie was a little paranoid about that.

"_Okay, baby, when you comin'?"_

"How about right now?" She clicked the phone shut, not waiting for a response. It buzzed immediately, and she looked at the number of the incoming call. Charlie. She smiled, catlike. Her little mouse was looking for her. Well, she had work to do. She would just let him stew for a few hours.

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Don had made it back to the office, and as he entered the bullpen, he was immediately surrounded by his agents.

"How's Charlie?" asked Megan, eying the bandage on Don's forehead with a frown.

"What happened to you?" asked Colby at the same time.

Don frowned slightly, wondering how they had heard about Charlie, but David interjected before he could speak. "It's all over the office. Wilson saw it, came up and told us it was Charlie. We called the hospital, but they said he was discharged already."

"What happened?" asked Megan.

"Whoa, whoa, just slow down," said Don, a little testily. He looked around the bullpen, and then jerked his head toward the small conference room next to them. "Let's go in here."

They sat around a table and Don rubbed his forehead wearily, forgetting about his stitches, and winced when he made contact. "Charlie was supposed to meet me for lunch today at the café across the street to go over the robbery statistics we had him run. I was standing outside the café, and I saw him heading down the block, and he went to cross the street, without looking where he was going."

He paused, his eyes dark, and his throat tightening, as the scene replayed itself in his mind. "A car hit him head on. He went right up over the hood, and hit the windshield. Luckily, all he got was a broken arm, and some pretty nasty bruises on his left side." '_To go with the other nasty bruises on the rest of his body,' _he thought to himself, dismally.

The agents stared at him. "So why isn't he still in the hospital?" asked Megan. "Shouldn't they keep him for observation after something like that?"

Don scowled. "They wanted to. He wouldn't stay. He wouldn't listen to Dad, and he sure as hell wasn't listening to me." He glanced at the open doorway to make sure no one was near, and lowered his voice. "There's something funny going on with him. I need you to check on something for me, and I need you to keep it quiet. I want to run a check on someone named Julia Stilson. Also, I need a check on an address – 942 Wickford. That's supposedly her residence. This does not leave this group, got it?"

They nodded. "What's this about?" asked Megan quietly, noting the concern in Don's face.

Don shook his head and looked down. "I can't tell you right now, but I think Charlie's in trouble. I'm not sure exactly what yet." They nodded and rose, headed for the bullpen, leaving him sitting alone in the conference room, lost in thought.

His cell phone vibrated, and he flipped it open and answered absently. "Eppes. Yeah Dad." He frowned. "He left again? Did you try calling him on his cell phone? Yeah, okay, I'll try too. Yeah, okay, bye." He sighed. Charlie had taken off again, without a word as to where he was going, and Alan was beside himself. He punched in his brother's cell phone number, but was not at all surprised when his call went to voice mail. If Charlie wasn't answering their father's calls, he sure wasn't going to answer his.

A few moments later, he emerged from the conference room and walked up behind Megan at her monitor. "Anything yet?"

"No Julia Stilson," replied Megan. "At least not in the DMV or tax listings. I'm still checking."

"Try it with two L's. When you start checking law enforcement records, try Stilson separately, and cross compare with Julia," suggested Don. "If it's an alias, they may show up in an alias listing as parts of other names."

"The house belongs to a George Arden," said David, looking up from his monitor. "She may be renting from him."

Don nodded. "Okay, check it out. See what name the lease was signed under, and whether he's had any problems with her."

He sat down at his computer, and rubbed his face. This apparently was going to take awhile. Sighing, he keyed in _California State Police_, and joined the search.

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Charlie had packed a small bag and left the house without a word to his father, trying to avoid a confrontation. He needed space, some time to think, a place where he wouldn't have to deal with questions.

He swung back by Julia's house, noting with frustration that she was still out. He had tried her cell phone and her work number several times with no success. He had called Millie and told her briefly about the accident, and requested some time off, which she immediately granted. He cut off her concerned questions with the excuse that he needed to rest. Now he was driving aimlessly, heading for the outskirts of town. He needed a place to crash, a private place where he could retreat and lick his wounds; somewhere that would take cash, no questions asked. He didn't need his brother tracking him down through a credit card. Not that he would, Charlie thought sourly, Don would probably be just as glad he was out of the way.

He found what he was looking for on the edge of Burbank, a rather seedy-looking two story motel, tucked in away from the street. He took a room on the first floor and dragged in the small bag that he had packed, moving painfully, suddenly exhausted. He switched his cell phone to vibrate, and within moments, he was sprawled on the bed, fast asleep.

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Megan stared at the Illinois State Police website in disbelief. She glanced over at Don's desk, and noted it was empty, then saw him standing in the conference room, his cell phone at his ear. She swiveled and addressed Colby and David, her eyes wide. "Guys, I got a hit. Come here and look at this."

They gathered behind her. "I found entry under Jan Stilson – drug possession, in Joliet, Illinois. The name is an alias; in this entry they note she's also known as Julia Stiles – aka Julia Stilson, but get this – get a load of her real name."

"Holy crap," said Colby his jaw dropping.

"Oh, man," breathed David, as Don walked up behind them.

"What have you got?" he asked.

Megan looked at him, her own expression incredulous. "Don, you're not going to believe this. Julia Stilson is Jessica Soames."

Somehow, Don found himself sitting in his chair, thanks to David's and Colby's strong arms. He stared at the screen in shock, his face pale. That twisted psychopath was Charlie's Julia? Fear suddenly settled in his gut, its grip cold. "Oh my God," he said, the shock still resonating in his voice. "I need to find Charlie."

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	8. Cat and Mouse

**Title: ****Julia**

**Chapter 8: Cat and Mouse**

Don snapped his cell phone shut and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "He's still not answering."

Colby looked puzzled. "What do you think she's trying to pull?"

"I don't know," said Don wearily. "Who knows with her? Maybe she's trying to use Charlie to make me jealous. Or maybe she's trying to manipulate him to get back at me." His stomach twisted as he remembered the doctor's allegations of abuse, and his face paled as another thought occurred to him. "Oh no."

"What?" asked David.

"Charlie was furious with me after the accident and I couldn't figure out why," he said with a look of dawning comprehension. "She set it up. Jessica was at the deli – she came up and gave me a kiss on the cheek and sat down in the booth with me."

Colby frowned. "That was incredibly stupid on her part."

"It was risky," said Don grimly, "but it wasn't stupid; she did it on purpose. Charlie must have seen her do it – she must have timed it so that he saw us together. She got up from the booth right away, and I caught up with her just outside the door."

He stared at the floor, remembering. "That was why Charlie was walking away from us – he wasn't going to the wrong meeting place, he was coming from the right one – he wasn't looking where he was going, he was upset…" He felt a surge of horror, as the realization hit him that he had unwittingly been a part of her ploy, and that it had resulted in Charlie's accident. Wordless, he put his head in his hands.

The other agents looked at each other, their faces somber. Megan spoke. "Don, you should get down to LAPD and get a warrant out for her arrest."

"Yeah," he said; his head still in his hands. He raised it and looked at them. "I was in the process of calling them when the accident went down." He thought for a minute. "Keep looking for hits on her; see if you can find anything else. I'm going to file for that warrant and get them to put a man on her house. If Charlie should call for any reason, don't just tell him to call me – he might not do it. Explain to him what's going on, and tell him he needs to stay away from her, and that he should get back home."

He rose as he spoke, grabbing his sunglasses, and delivered the last few words walking backwards. He turned, and they watched his retreating back for just a moment, before they exchanged an uneasy glance and went back to work.

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Julia had spent most of the day on the backbreaking task of moving her equipment. She had loaded it into the van and driven for a good hour out of town, into the hills, to a small closed down manufacturing firm. It sat five miles outside of the town of Cereta, and she had been there just two months ago for a rave with an S&M theme. There were three isolated buildings on the property; one of which was a warehouse. She had gotten the key for it from the person who had organized the rave, a man she knew simply as Mike, who lived in Cereta, and who used to work at the firm as a janitor. It was now well past eight, and she was back in L.A., tired, dirty, and almost vibrating visibly with pent up excitement.

She had tried calling Charlie back, but he didn't answer. She was ready now, everything was set up, and she was impatient. Still in the van, she swung past her street, cruising slowly, looking for Charlie's car. She didn't see his, but there was a dark sedan parked down the block. She kept going, and headed toward Charlie's house. His father's car was the only one in sight. CalSci? Would he have gone into work?

A few moments later she sat in the CalSci parking lot, frustrated. No Charlie. Her needs were overwhelming her, and she dug her nails into her thigh, trying to get some relief. It gave her a faint flutter of pleasure, but no more. She was fixated on her goal now, and nothing would sate her other than inflicting pain. She beat a tense tattoo on the steering wheel, and then headed towards home, dialing and redialing Charlie's cell phone as she went.

This time she approached her street from the other end of the block. The black sedan was still sitting there, and from this angle she could see the profile of a man seated in it. Her internal radar went off, and she kept going instead of turning on to the street, stopping three blocks away. They were on to her. She ground her teeth. Don Eppes. He had probably gone after the fact and filed a warrant for her arrest. She seethed with rage for a moment; then smiled, her face twisted with hate. No matter. She had everything she needed at the warehouse. Everything but the Eppes brothers, and they would come soon enough.

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Charlie groaned, and opened his eyes, trying to figure out where he was. His arm was throbbing again, and the razor blades were still dancing in his stomach. The room was dark except for a sliver of light that came through the curtains from the streetlight outside. As memory returned, he groaned again. This had to be, without a doubt, the worst day of his life. It was even worse than the day he was dumped by Amita. At least then his own brother hadn't been involved. He heard his cell phone vibrating on the table and groped for the bedside light. He winced as it came on, and grabbing his phone impatiently, he pulled up the missed calls.

Several from Don and his father, and more recently – Julia. She must be back. Finally, he would get to the bottom of this. With shaking hands he hit dial, and his heart thumped painfully as he heard her voice. "Julia."

"_Charlie_," came her voice, as smooth as velvet. "_I'm sorry I missed your calls earlier; I had some business to take care of._"

'_I'll bet,'_ thought Charlie dourly. "We need to talk. Are you at home?"

"No," came the quick reply. "Are you?"

He glanced around the nondescript room. "No."

"_Why don't I come to where you are?"_

He hesitated. "Well, actually, I'm in a motel in Burbank. It's really not the nicest place, but at least it's private."

"_Private is good_," she purred. "_Where is it?_"

Charlie gave her the name and address, and she promised to be there within the half hour. He hung up and rubbed his forehead with his good hand. Now that he knew she was coming, he wasn't at all certain he was ready to talk. He had a horrible feeling that nothing good was going to come out of the conversation.

He rose stiffly, painfully, and shuffled into the bathroom, peering in the black-specked mirror. He looked like death warmed over, his face was pale and bruised, and covered in stubble. He should at least shave. If he was going to try to win her back, he wasn't going to do it looking like this.

He thought for a minute on the ramifications of what he was trying to do. She had obviously lied to him, and there was the unsettling matter of the drug. _'Alleged drug,' _he corrected himself. He knew without a doubt that he still wanted her, but he also knew, in the back of his mind, that he wasn't being rational. It would all boil down to what she had to say for herself, he realized, with a twist of apprehension. For the sake of his heart, he hoped her story was a good one.

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Don stared at the printouts in front of him, his uneasiness rising. Once his agents started plugging in Jessica Soames and the various aliases, they generated even more hits. Porn rings, drug possession, reports of deviant behavior, even a charge of participating in a group that was into snuff encounters – strangling their victims in the midst of sexual acts. Most of the charges had been dropped due to lack of evidence, but there was an unquestionable pattern of behavior here. A very sick pattern.

He shook his head, wondering how Charlie had managed to get involved with someone like this. Oh, he knew first hand that Jessica could be charming, and she had a tendency to turn on whatever personality she needed to fit the occasion; hell, she could be downright irresistible, but still…

His stomach churned, as he remembered the bruises on his brother's back. Even if she was putting on some kind of charade to lure him in, Charlie would have to have been aware that he was being beaten – unless it had happened when he was under the influence of the J-rock. A sudden rage took over, as the thought occurred to him. The thought of his relatively innocent brother being taken advantage of made his blood boil.

Charlie wasn't inexperienced when it came to sex, Don was sure, but he knew that Jessica's take on sex was a whole other story. He doubted Charlie would have even the foggiest ideas that such deviant pursuits existed – and might well want to deny them if he did, out of pure disbelief that anyone could be so twisted. Especially if his brother was as infatuated with her as he seemed to be.

Whatever she was up to, Charlie's denial would make it hard for him to see it. He was vulnerable; at the very least he was in for a broken heart, which was bad enough, coming on the heels with his breakup with Amita. And in the worst case….Don looked again at the report in front of him. He didn't want to think about the worst case. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed Charlie for the twentieth time that day.

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The cell phone vibrated again, and Charlie stepped over to pick it up, setting down the towel he was using to dry his face. He flipped it open and looked at the number. Don again. He stared at it the phone for a second, then a knock sounded at the door. He snapped it shut, and laying it down, stepped over to the door with a thumping heart.

Julia fingered the syringe in her pocket, and stood waiting for the door to open. It did, and they stood for a moment in silence, regarding each other. She tried to read the expression on his face. His eyes were dark, and held – what? A bit of accusation, a bit of anger, but above all, passion, a helpless infatuation. She smiled, feeling a surge of anticipation. "Aren't you going to invite me in?"

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	9. You Have No Idea Who I Am

**Title: ****Julia**

**Chapter 9: You Have No Idea Who I Am**

Julia stepped inside, and Charlie stood aside at the door to let her pass. She was keenly aware of the syringe in her jacket pocket, and put her hand at her side, in front of the pocket, to make sure he couldn't somehow see the outline of it She had been pleasantly surprised, when Markie had called and told her that both of her orders were in. Perfect, fated timing. She had five disposable needles of the injectible J-rock, which Markie's chemist had thrown in free-of-charge to thank her for her help developing and testing the new gel delivery-system for "Special-K". The tiny tub of the solution lay safely in the warehouse, waiting.

Damn. This was going to be good. She was having more fun with these brothers than she had ever had in her sick life, with anyone. Her only regret was that it would be hard to top this experience. With considerable effort, she suppressed her joy and looked sympathetically at Charlie. "What happened to you?" she asked in feigned shock, looking at the splint on his arm.

His eyes narrowed a bit. She was there at the café. He supposed it was conceivable that she didn't know about the accident, but it seemed odd, considering the fact that Don had showed up at the site. "I was in an accident."

Her eyes widened. "Poor baby. Nothing too serious, I hope."

She stepped toward him to give him an embrace, but he held up a hand, wordlessly holding her off. She shrugged a bit and smiled to cover the absolute fury that surged through her at the rejection. There was a small round rickety table with a chair next to it, and he indicated to her that she should sit. There were no other chairs in the room, so he sat on the end of the bed, facing her. It put him at a slight height advantage, and it made her chafe mentally.

He spoke without preamble. "I saw you today. You and Don."

She had known that was coming, but pretended surprise, fixing an expression of regret on her face. "Oh, Charlie –you were there?" At his quiet affirmative, she put a hand up covering her face as if in pain. She looked up at him, with false tears shimmering in her eyes. "I'm so sorry –I wanted to tell you, but Don wouldn't let me."

Charlie swallowed hard, trying to suppress the pain that the statement generated. "Why not?"

"He wanted me to come up with another reason for breaking up with you – so it wouldn't look like he caused it." She drank in the pain on his face with satisfaction.

His voice was bitter. "So you fed me J-rock, and when I lost control, you blamed me for it, and that became your excuse for breaking it off." He paused, watching her face. She was going to deny that she had done it. '_Please deny that you did it_.'

Damn. He'd found out about the J-rock – of course he would have – at the hospital. Think fast, Jessica. "Actually," she said, improvising quickly, "I didn't have that in mind when I gave it to you. You see, your brother likes it – I thought maybe you would too." His mouth dropped open, and she continued with her lie, thoroughly enjoying the comical look on his face.

"You see, Charlie, your brother and I are very compatible. We both like to experiment; we like a little spice in our sex life. Don loves to give up all control in the bedroom – it's understandable really, considering the amount of control he has to assert over situations in his daily life. That's why he likes the J-rock. Charlie looked horrified, and was turning a little green. '_This is inspired_,' she thought gleefully as she looked at his reaction. '_An unbelievably freaking brilliant lie. Who's the genius here?' _

She sighed. "You on the other hand, are a bit boring. More than a bit. I guess you academic types are into dull. I just thought I'd try to spice things up a little." She pasted a disappointed look on her face. "It didn't work. I couldn't even get you to hit me – even drugged you were boring. I had to call your brother for that." She watched him out of the corner of her eye and almost had to stifle a laugh at the look on his face. Her expression sobered suddenly as he rose from the bed, with a mixture of anger and disgust, but above all, pain, on his face.

"You're lying," he said hoarsely, as she rose and faced him. As she did so, she slipped her hand carefully into her pocket, grasping the syringe.

"Am I, Charlie?" she said softly, advancing toward him. She now had the height advantage, and she looked down slightly into his eyes. "What do you really know about your brother's sex life? And who are you to judge? Don and I are the normal ones – experimenting is healthy. Maybe you're the one who's not normal – you and your repressed conventional bland excuse for sex." She moved up against him, and he retreated, but only an inch, stopped by the bed behind him.

"It doesn't have to be this way," she murmured, fingering his shirt. "I really do like you. You seem to have a high pain tolerance – you should try the release that pain brings. You and I could be good together. If you were just willing to let loose a little, it could be me and you, instead of me and Don." She looked up at him seductively.

Charlie's stomach turned, and he pushed her away, his face twisted in disgust. "Get away from me! You're still lying; you've been lying to me from day one. I don't even know who you are." Even amidst the anger and disgust, he could feel the despair; the loss he felt for a woman that he knew now never existed. Nausea rose in him; he was sure he was going to be sick. "Just get out."

Her eyes narrowed; a flare of rage deep in the irises. No one dumped her. He was insinuating that she was some kind of slut. Who was he to talk, on his moral high horse? She smiled bitterly. It didn't matter. He was going to be brought down, and the time was now. She pretended to turn; then charged at him suddenly. Backed up against the bed, he lost his balance and fell partially sideways, and she fell on top of him.

Charlie's good arm was pinned beneath both himself and Julia, and as he struggled to free it, he felt a sharp pinch; and then pressure in the muscles between his shoulder and his neck. He grunted, an involuntary, "Uh!" escaping him, and twisted his head toward the source of the pain. He looked at her, shocked for a moment as he saw the syringe, and struggled harder, managing to free his good arm.

Julia grabbed his good wrist with both hands, and pressed down on him with all her weight, pinning his splinted arm. Between her finely-honed-and-practiced strength and his already weakened condition, it was pathetically easy to overpower him while she waited for the J-rock to kick in. She could feel him tremble as the sedative started to take hold, and even while gasping with the effort, she smiled. His arm twitched, and fell suddenly, lifelessly, to the bed, and his head drooped sideways.

He was breathing heavily, his eyes still open, and she grasped him roughly by the hair and pulled his face up toward her. "You're right, love," she said as her lips curved in a wicked smile. "You have no idea who I am, but you're about to find out." She took in his stunned look and the growing fear in his eyes with a surge of triumph. As he stared back helplessly, she twisted her fingers in his hair and gave him a long a slow kiss.

She rose and stepped to the door, taking a cautious look out into the darkness. The parking lot appeared deserted, and leaving the room door open, she moved quickly forward and opened the van doors. She had backed it against the curb, right in front of the room door, and she mentally congratulated herself for her foresight.

Stepping back into the room, she pulled Charlie's good arm around her neck, dragging him off the bed, with a grunt at the effort it took. She put one arm around his waist, and hauled him toward the doorway. His head drooped, and his eyes were beginning to shut, as she lugged him across the sidewalk. She caught a glimpse of movement to her right – someone else was leaving his room.

She got the impression that the man had glanced at them but it was night, and it was hard to tell. Just to be safe, she said in a loud complaining voice, "You just had to go get drunk again. This is the last time! My mother told me you were nothing but a drunk! I should have listened to her…" she looked sideways, pausing as the car door slammed, the vehicle started and pulled out of the lot, and then pushed Charlie's limp body into the back of the van. She slammed the doors behind him and leaned her back against the van doors for just a moment, as a slow smile started to her face. It had begun.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Alan regarded Don over the kitchen table, in stunned and absolute silence. He had not spoken through the entire, ugly story, and Don was beginning to wonder if he ever would. "I'm sorry, Dad," he finally wound down, miserable. "I never thought something like this could happen. I'll explain it to him, somehow, I'll…I'll fix it…."

Alan finally found his voice. "My Lord, Donnie. You should have told us. I can understand not sharing every date you ever have with us, but the instant a restraining order became involved, you should have told us! We're a _family_, Don, a _family_! How are Charlie and I supposed to be there for you if we don't even know something is wrong?"

Don's hand crept through his hair. "I didn't think…I mean, it was bizarre, but it all stopped as soon as I got the restraining order, so I thought it was over for good. I was embarrassed. It was hard enough telling the team, and Liz…."

Alan drew back a little in his chair. "You told them? You wouldn't tell us, but you told them?"

Don leaned forward in his own chair, as if to make up the space. "I had to. It was my responsibility to…"

Alan snorted and stood up quickly. "Responsibility begins at home, Don. You just don't owe us the opportunity to act as your family. You owe us the opportunity to at least protect ourselves!" Alan started angrily toward the swinging door into the main house. "Dear God. You're a grown man who spends one night thinking with his…." He didn't finish the thought. "Now, your brother is paying for it. He's hurt, and alone, and it's all your fault."

Don visbly winced, and stared at the table in dejected agreement while he listened to his father storm away.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Half-an-hour into the drive to the warehouse, Julia, who had been traveling back roads for the last several miles, couldn't take it any more and pulled off the highway.

This was a perfectly good waste of J-rock.

She knew from her earlier trips to this destination that the small market closed at nine, and she drove slowly toward the far corner of the parking lot behind the store cutting the headlights and navigating by the dim light afforded by the moon and stars. When she had safely tucked them into a spot next to the dumpster, she turned off the engine, but left the keys dangling in the ignition. Releasing her seat belt, she twisted and squeezed herself through the seats, clamboring toward the back of the van, where she could hear Charlie moaning. She welcomed the bruises, the gouges from the emergency brake. She had been telling Charlie the truth part of the time – even on J-Rock, he didn't like to hurt her, and she always had to turn elsewhere to satisfy that particular need.

Reaching his side, she turned herself in the cramped space so that they were facing the same direction, feeling his hardness through his jeans as she did. Immediately her hand sought out the buttons on his fly, and her heart actually fluttered as he grunted. This _was_ injectible J-rock; maybe it would be stronger, and elicit even more of a response from her idiot genius.

She straddled him with one final thought. If he still wouldn't hurt her, she's just find the tire iron and break one of her own fingers, later.


	10. Why Can't Anything Be Simple?

_Our thanks to you faithful folks who are reviewing this story.._

**Title: ****Julia**

**Chapter 10: ****Why Can't Anything Be Simple?**

It hadn't taken Alan long to come back and apologize, but Don had waved him off. "You were right," he said despondently. "Charlie wouldn't have been targeted by this woman if she wasn't trying to get to me. It's too much of a coincidence for it to be anything else."

Alan sat back down at the table and sighed. His tirade had not brought Charlie any closer to home; it had only served to drive Don farther away from it. "Even if that's true, son, and even if you had told us about this woman, it's not like we would have asked to see a photograph. It's been months, even I probably wouldn't have suspected anything when this, this Julia, or Jessica, or whatever, went after your brother. Let's just get him back, and we'll explain everything to him. He's hurt right now, but in his heart he must know that you would never do a thing like this to him. We'll explain, Don."

Don looked up from the table and looked at his father with gratitude. Ever since Charlie had been born, Don's job was to take care of him. Now, he had let this terrible thing happen to him, and after a few understandable seconds of anger and disappointment, Alan was making himself part of the solution, ready to stand by Don's side. _We'll__ explain_,,,, Don grimaced, knowing the sordid story was only half over. "The team is helping me look," he admitted, "LAPD has an APB out for his car."

Alan looked a little surprised. "They'll do that? I can understand your friends helping, but how did you convince another law enforcement agency to put out an APB?"

Don snaked a hand across the table and patted his father's awkwardly. "Dad, I asked that trauma physician at the hospital to contact them, and report Charlie as a victim of abuse."

Alan tensed and looked at Don warily. "What? Why? Is there something you're not telling me?"

Don looked at the table again in abject misery, withdrawing his hand to rub at his forehead. "I think she's hurting him, Dad."

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

After a brief quickie – or two – in the back of the van, Julia had continued on to the warehouse. It was equipped with an electronic bay-door opening system, and she had fumbled for the remote in the glove compartment, then driven right in. Opening the bay door also activated the lights, and when she climbed from the driver's seat, sauntered to the back, and nearly tore the van's doors off their hinges, she was greeted with a lovely sight. During the last part of the trip, the groaning and distressed professor had begun bleeding internally, if the trickle out of his mouth and the arms clutched around his stomach were any indication. He was in a fetal position, semi-conscious and sweating. Julia took in the view for a while, then had an idea.

She hadn't really meant to use one of the videos on this, but it really was too good. She jogged across the warehouse to a small wooden table under a time clock mounted on the wall. On the table was a collection of several prepaid cell phones, each purchased for cash from a different location, and each capable of recording and sending video, as well as text messaging. She would go ahead and use the first one now, recording him in all his bloody, miserable glory. Then she would wrest him out of the van and secure him to the pulley that hung from the warehouse ceiling.

The pulley remained there from the earlier raves. She had always found it rather boring and pedestrian, herself; but it would do for security purposes tonight. In the morning, after she had taken a few hours of rest, Julia would introduce Charlie to her favorite piece of equipment. She almost salivated in anticipation as she started to pull him roughly out of the van. Charlie groaned in semi-conscious misery, and Julia paused, and reconsidered.

Maybe she would clean him off a little and have sex with him again, first.

"Wake up, lover," she cooed, pushing Charlie back up into the van. She used the beads of sweat pooling on his forehead to help her wipe the blood off his face with her bare hand. She stared at her own appendage for a moment, then slowly raised it to her face. Closing her eyes, she licked Charlie's blood off her fingers. Oh, how Julia loved it when a plan came together.

She decided that since she had a video clip already, she would drive into L.A. first thing in the morning, before she transferred him to her own invention, Terminal Ecstacy. She might even treat herself to breakfast. This S&M stuff built a serious appetite. Then she would find a low-rent, by-the-hour dive, park in the alley behind it and place the call. While the video was still transmitting to Don, the phone safely tucked behind some nameless gutter drunk, Julia would be on her way back to the warehouse – and Charlie.

She felt a minor tug of disappointment, wishing she could have risked sending the first video from Charlie's own phone. But sometimes one had to sacrifice a little satisfaction in the name of common sense. The last thing she needed right now was a gung-ho FBI agent with a serious brother complex tracing the GPS chip in the phone to the warehouse before morning. She was glad she had taken the time, when she left the motel, to drive twenty miles in the opposite direction before she had found something grungy and twitchy pushing a loaded shopping cart full of dirty clothing, a snarling, matted mutt, and what looked like a small television. Julie hadn't even been sure if it was a man, or a woman. She had just pulled the van over to the curb, offered it $20.00 and the phone, made a u-turn and headed for the warehouse. She smiled now, imagining the interrogation when they finally tracked the phone – if that thing had even bothered to keep it. Unless the dog could talk, there was little chance of a coherent description of the van, or its driver, or whether or not it was daylight, for that matter.

She wondered vaguely how long it would take them to discover who she really was, and her advanced degree in chemistry; not to mention the fact that she was independently wealthy, having inherited millions from a family trust at the age of 21. The low-paying jobs had just been a way to find others who were interested in the same pastimes she was. She hadn't worked at the print shop since around the time she told Charlie that her hours had changed. She had spent a considerable amount of those dollars hiding her real identity, but she had never known for sure that the man she hired had done a really through job hacking into the Pennsyvania database and deleting her prints and all record of her years there. She had received quite the education at Bryn Mawr, and it wasn't all in chemistry. She sighed. If she had paid more attention in the computer classes, perhaps she could have done the job herself, instead of being forced to trust someone she met on the other end of a cattle prod.

Charlie groaned again, jolting her out of her musings, and Julia looked down at his jeans and noted with satisfaction that the injected J-rock was indeed potent. Dear, sweet, Charlie. Such a complete fool, and proving to be so much fun.

It really would be difficult to give him up.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Don had stayed the night at the Craftsman. Both he and his father called Charlie until his brother's voice mail was full and rejecting all calls. He knew Megan was checking with Larry to see if he had heard from Charlie, and Don even called Amita. It was always conceivable that when faced with the demise of his newest relationship, Charlie had retreated to the old one…. Don hadn't really expected that to happen, but he was still disappointed when she took his call only to tell him she was in Colorado, at a physics conference. Just in case Charlie had forgotten that in his heartbreak, though, Don left for the office early and drove by her apartment. He didn't really expect to see his brother's car there, Charlie waiting patiently inside for his former lover, but at this point he was willing to try anything.

Even with the detour, it was early when he reached the FBI offices. On the way, he had phoned his contact at LAPD and suggested that he trace the GPS chip in Charlie's phone – his brother had officially been missing almost 24 hours now. Or at least close enough to cash in a favor. He parked his SUV in his space in the parking garage, and joined only one other person, a technician who worked in forensics, on the elevator. Don smiled politely but leaned against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest in body language that did not invite conversation.

The lift had ascended several flights when he felt his cell vibrate at his waist. Immediately Don jerked the phone off his belt and flipped it open, not even checking the caller ID first. "Charlie? Charlie, is that you?" Don was greeted with silence, and he clutched the phone a little tighter, not caring that the elevator's other passenger was not even trying to hide the fact that he was staring at him. "Charlie! Hello? Who is this?" Don waited, holding his own breath , but could not hear anything on the other end. No breathing, no extraneous noise filtering in that might indicate where the call was coming from…. He swore under his breath and pulled the phone away from his ear, lowering it to a place in front of him where he could check the caller ID.

Holy Mother of God.

A video was playing across his screen. Charlie, obviously injured, or sick, or both. He was in a fetal position, his eyes were squeezed shut in pain, and he was rocking around the arms he held tightly wrapped around his stomach. There was blood on his face, his clothes. There was no sound to the clip, but Don could see Charlie's lips move occasionally in a grimace.

Don managed to tear his eyes away from the image long enough to check the caller ID, and determine that this feed was not coming from his brother's phone. His eyes gravitated back toward the video, and his blood froze in his veins.

She had him.

It was true, she had done all of this to get Don, and she wasn't finished punishing him, yet. She had Charlie, she was hurting Charlie, and she wanted Don to know it.

The video flicked to a close, but Don continued to stare at the blank screen, horrified and sickened. "Oh, God," he moaned, not even realizing that he was sliding down the wall of the elevator. "Charlie…"

Don sensed a presence beside him and looked up from the phone to see the technician kneeling in front of him. The man looked sympathetic, even though his head was tilted and he was blinking at Don as if he were an experiment. "Whatever is is, Agent, we can trace it."

Don almost felt a surge of hope, until the vision of Charlie flashed through his head, again. Something told him a simple trace was not going to do it.

END, Chapter 10


	11. Agony and Ecstasy

**Title: ****Julia**

**Chapter 11: ****Agony and Ecstasy**

Megan raised her head as the elevator doors opened, and immediately froze, fixated by the look on Don's face. He was headed toward the conference room at a half jog, accompanied by a technician, who was talking as they trotted. Don looked up and caught her eyes, his expression frantic, and he gave swift jerk of his head toward the conference room.

"Guys," said Megan, already rising, "come on, something's up." Colby and David looked up in time to see Don going through the conference room door, and they were up like a shot, and on Megan's heels.

"Okay, keep it running, let me hook it up," the technician was saying as they entered, and Don handed him a cell phone. He busied himself for a moment with the equipment, and Don stood impatiently watching.

Megan tried to read his expression. "What's up?" she asked softly.

Don turned and looked at them as if just realizing that they were standing there; and Megan got a good look at his face. He looked desperate; his eyes filled with fear. He swallowed hard before he spoke. "She's got him, she's-"

"Okay, I've got it hooked in. The system's searching for the signal – you'll get video feed in just a…" the technician's voice trailed off as the video came up on the computer monitor. They stared in shock at the image of Charlie on the screen, the short clip playing and replaying like a twisted trailer for a horror film.

"Jesus," breathed Colby.

Don eyes were riveted on the screen, his chest heaving. The magnified image was immeasurably worse – the blood on his brother's face stood out, scarlet and garish, and the fresh trickle coming from his mouth was apparent. Megan stared for a moment, stunned, then collected herself, and steered Don to a chair.

Don sat, almost mindlessly, but the technician's next words shot him immediately to his feet again. "Holy shit, that phone's still transmitting! I can get a read on it, a location –," the technician tapped the keyboard excitedly, and a map appeared on an adjoining monitor. They crowded around him, watching tensely as the program homed in on the location.

"Come on, baby – there it is – 23rd and 6th – that's ten minutes from here…" the technician turned and his voice trailed off, as he realized that he was talking to an empty room. He caught just a glimpse of the agents as they ran around the hall corner, and turned back and stared at the other monitor again, still silently playing and replaying its macabre image.

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Don tore onto the ramp for highway 110, hands clenched tightly on the steering wheel, Megan pale faced and tight lipped beside him. Colby and David were just behind, tailing so close that they were almost kissing Don's SUV bumper. Moments later they shot off the Arlington Avenue exit and rocketed down the ramp, brakes squealing as they made a sharp right onto Arlington, and then a block later, a left onto 21st. As Don turned left onto 5th, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed the conference room.

"Where's the signal?" he barked, turning again as 5th turned into 23rd.

"_I'm not getting movement," _said the technician into the speaker phone_. "After you left I pulled up the address. It's an old, abandoned hotel on the corner."_

Don hung up and hit David's speed dial, and spoke tersely into the phone, relaying the information. "You guys take the back, check the alley. Megan and I will come in from the front."

"_Got it_."

Don hit 6th and saw the ramshackle building immediately. He steered the SUV to the curb and slammed on his brakes, thanking God for shoulder belts as he saw Megan's hair whip forward toward the dash out of the corner of his eye. David and Colby careened around the corner and into the alley.

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Colby saw him first, leaned up against a dumpster, firmly in the twilight zone of the very drunk, and the very homeless. He was still clutching the bottle in his hand, and Colby's heart sank. It was obvious this guy hadn't been doing anything but one-armed curls for quite some time. Still, he kept his weapon extended before him and spoke lowly to David. "Got something. Dumpster, back door." David glided in close behind him, weapon also raised, providing back-up. When they reached the derelict, Colby kicked at the man's shoe and spoke again. "Hey! Buddy, wake up!" The only response was a lolling head and the dropping of the bottle, which shattered on the asphalt. Somehow knowing what he was going to find, yet hoping desperately that he wouldn't, Colby slowly kneeled and carefully avoided the glass, searching the ground around and behind the drunk. When he found the cell phone, he picked it up using a handkerchief from his pocket and lifted it to show David. "I found it," he negotiated. "Now, you get to be the one to tell Don."

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Don and Megan were still searching the ground floor of the building when David and Colby joined them. It turned out that neither one of them was willing to provide Don with details, so Colby just held up the evidence bag and shrugged. "Planted," he said, managing to hiss out one word. Don paled, staggering back from the cell phone as if it were somehow responsible for what was happening to Charlie. He was further discombobulated when his own phone started ringing. He stood in silent shock and made no move to answer it until Megan's concerned face was inches away. "Do you want me to get that?"

"What?" The sound of Megan's soft voice grounded Don a little, and he finally understood that the ringing was not coming from the cell phone in the bag; it was his own phone, on his belt. Feeling like an idiot, he shook his head to clear it and grabbed the cell. "Eppes," he growled. Don listened intently for a moment, and his face hardened. His equilibrium suddenly restored, he turned on his heel and started back to the SUV in a dead run. His team followed without knowing exactly why until he paused briefly at the driver's door and looked at them over the hood of the vehicle. "LAPD," he informed them, keeping it as brief as possible. "They tracked Charlie's cell. It's moving, but slowly. They're sending a unit. We can meet them – Skid Row area, just a few blocks from here." Colby and David took off running for their car without waiting for an address. They wouldn't be far enough behind Don to get lost, anyway.

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Don slowed to a crawl as he turned, scanning both sides of the road anxiously. The street was almost deserted, save for a few derelicts, one sprawled on the left side next to a building, and another undoubtedly homeless wretch making its way up the right side, pushing a shopping cart, a mangy mongrel at its feet. The morning light did nothing to soften the scene, and it was quickly obvious that the only thing that was moving at all on the street was the miserable wreck to the right. If the phone was moving slowly, on this street, this had to be the…creature…who had it. Not even considering waiting for the LAPD unit, Don stopped the SUV in the middle of the street and led the charge.

Seconds later, the wreck found itself surrounded by the barrels of four pistols, shouts of "FBI!" ringing in its ears. Whatever it was cringed, and put up shaking hands. "I ain't done nuthin,'" it wailed, and with the words it became apparent that it must be a man. The mutt snapped excitedly and growled, showing its lower teeth.

Don snarled at the bum. "Keep those hands up! Are you carrying a cell phone? Where did you get it? When?" Colby began patting him down, while David poked through the shopping cart.

Dark eyes glittered back at him under matted hair and then darted nervously to the cart. "Ain't got no phone. Ain't-,"

"What in the hell's this?" growled David, repeating Colby's handkerchief trick himself. He recognized the CalSci logo on the phone's leather case as he lifted it, and he looked at Don. "This is it."

Don lunged at the filthy creature in front of him, grabbing him by the coat. "Where'd you get that phone?" He shook the man, his voice rough with rage. "Where'd you get it?"

"I picked it up off the street," muttered the man, his eyes shifting downward.

Don stared at him a minute, seething. The man was obviously lying. "Okay, you're coming in for questioning. Read him his goddamn rights and leave his stuff here." He watched, his eyes narrowed, as the man was led off by Colby and David without complaint. Something was definitely strange about this. No homeless person he ever encountered gave up their miserable belongings without some kind of protest. He glanced at the shopping cart, frowning, as Megan slipped the phone that David handed her into an evidence bag. The dog, suddenly unattended, pulled on its leash, and broke free of the cart, hightailing it down the street.

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Charlie groaned and arched his body, trying to move away from the dull pain in his lower back. The movement sent a spear of pain through his gut, and his left arm erupted from a severe ache into full fledged agony. He cried out in pain, gritting his teeth, and then gasped for air, trying to fight back a wave of nausea. He lifted his head and craned his neck tentatively, trying to see what was holding him in his awkward position.

He was suspended on some kind of framework, he realized dazedly; his wrists and ankles were secured by straps and he hung on the frame, about three feet off the ground, like a sort of human hammock. Or at least he would have hung, except for the spike that dug into his back. The top of the spike wasn't terribly sharp, but when he relaxed, it pushed into his back with a bruising force, forcing his body upward. If he stiffened his limbs and arched his back as high as he could, he could hold himself over it, but the movement put too much pressure on his broken arm. He had no choice but to relax his body, to let his back rest on its punishing support.

He kept his head elevated for just a moment, looking around in confusion, taking in his surroundings. It was some kind of warehouse, he thought dimly, before the weight of his head became too much, and he let it fall backward again, hanging uncomfortably between his shoulders, toward the floor. As he looked up at his arms, he realized that the splint had been removed, and it almost surprised him when he felt some concern about that. He had been repeatedly drugged, raped, beaten, and was currently being tortured. A broken arm was the least of his worries. He coughed, and it pulled a groan of anguish from him, as pain knifed through his stomach again, and a fresh trickle of blood ran from his mouth.

"Perfect," came a voice off to his side, and he turned his head toward the sound, as Julia hit the stop button on the cell phone camera. She smiled, and strolled toward him, kneeling to bring her face closer to his.

He looked at her, despair and bewilderment on his face. "What are you doing?" The words rasped out, his voice as rough as sandpaper from the pain.

She stroked his face. "You'll find out soon enough," she said softly, smiling. Her eyes trailed up and down the length of the framework. "It's exquisite, isn't it? It starts out merely as uncomfortable; you can shift slightly, but the spike always ends up pressing somewhere on your lower back. Eventually the whole area is bruised, bruise on top of bruise, until the skin and muscle are nearly pulverized."

She put her hand under his head, supporting it, offering a moment of blessed relief to his neck. "And your neck – you can lift your head, but not for very long. Eventually your neck and shoulders tighten into unbearable spasms. And no one has to lift a finger – the force is applied by gravity. It's one of my favorites." She sighed, wishing that it was her in the device. She would need to settle for second-best, inflicting the pain on someone else.

She pulled suddenly on his hair, yanking his neck down, and the force was transmitted to the rest of his body, pulling his back even harder into the spike, and stretching his broken arm. He cried out involuntarily at the pain, and gasped as she lightly ran her fingers over his swollen, bruised forearm. She felt a sensual rush of joy at his cry.

"You need to find the pleasure in it, Charlie," she admonished, her chest rising and falling with deep breaths of desire. "There is a fine line between agony and ecstasy. Once you learn to cross it, you are liberated, free to experience pleasure like you've never known."

Charlie clenched his teeth, trying not to moan, trying to keep from giving her the satisfaction. His head reeled with the pain and shock. The woman that he thought he had loved was insane, a sick psychopathic monster. He wondered fleetingly if anyone had missed him, if they were looking for him, but he realized with despair that it was doubtful at best. After the way he had treated his brother, Don was probably staying as far away as he could. It would be up to Charlie to try to somehow to convince her to stop what she was doing.

He turned his head slightly from its hanging position and looked into her eyes. They were heavy with lust; he could see her breasts heaving, and her face was consumed with a look of need. "Please, Julia," he whispered, but the plea in his eyes just seemed to inflame her, and she reached greedily for his broken arm with both hands.

With a single, powerful twist, she transported both of them to a semi-conscious state, their voices mingling together in screams of pleasure and pain. They hung suspended as one in mindless limbo for a moment, one borne by ecstasy, one by agony, before reality descended again. As the unimaginable sensations subsided, awareness returned to the one, and slipped away from the other.

Julia clambered unsteadily to her feet, and stood panting, staring numbly at Charlie's unconscious body. She had just experienced pleasure like none other before, so absolute that she was rooted in place, stupefied for just a moment. The belief that hurting another was second-best had been disintegrated, dismantled by what she had just gone through. Her face still bearing a look of shock, she staggered away toward the van. Her mind slowly began to function again; there was work to do. She had a video to deliver.

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Colby and David propelled the ragged derelict swiftly through the bullpen toward the interrogation room, followed by Megan and Don. Don eyes were fixed on the back of the man's head, as if he could pull information from it as they walked, but as focused as he was, a quiet voice made him pause and turn. Liz stood to the side of one of the desks, her eyes full of apprehension.

"I saw the video," she said quietly, stepping forward and placing a hand on his arm. Megan paused for just a moment, glancing at them; then moved forward toward the interrogation room. Liz's eyes followed her, briefly; then turned back to Don. "Did you find anything? Do you know who has him?" She searched his face, noting with a pang the look of despair in his eyes.

He took a breath, trying to steady his voice. "It's Jessica Soames. I told you about Charlie's girlfriend, Julia – it was Jessica, all along." He felt emotion rising, and he rubbed his eyes, trying to will it away.

Liz's face filled with consternation. "The woman you have the restraining order against? But he's known her for weeks, what – at least a month now? And she planned this from the start?"

Don's jaw set in a grim line. "It looks like it." He raised his eyes toward the interrogation room. "I have a suspect to talk to." He looked down at her, and his expression softened, but she could see the residue of fear in his eyes. "We'll talk later."

She nodded mutely, and watched him make his way toward the room. The realization did not escape her that even though Jessica had Charlie, it was Don that she wanted revenge against, and apparently would stop at nothing to get it. A cold pit of fear settled in her stomach as she watched the door close behind him.

David and Colby were both playing bad cop, leaning over the suspect, as if the slightest movement he made would trigger them to pounce. Don paced behind them like a caged lion, and eyed the man, who sat slouched in his chair. "I want a lawyer," he said sullenly. The street accent was gone.

"We'll get you a public defender," growled Colby.

The man straightened suddenly and pulled the matted hair from his head, revealing short, somewhat spiky black hair. Without it, he looked suddenly years younger; probably early twenties; and his face bore a definite attitude. "I'm a reporter, you idiots. My name is Danny Wilton. I want a real lawyer. You can call mine."

David and Colby straightened in surprise and Don forced his way between them, leaning on the table, his eyes snapping with repressed anger and impatience. "If you haven't done anything wrong, you shouldn't need one. Just tell us how you got the phone."

Wilton scowled. He had worked for weeks on this story, posing as a homeless man in the streets, and had little to show for it. The anonymous girl and the cell phone with its apparent connection to a crime were the best thing that had happened to him yet. He had memorized the plate number on the van and was hoping to find her and get more information, something that would finally bring some real impact to his piece. "I don't intend to divulge my source," he said snootily, looking antagonistically back at Don.

Don's face turned an unhealthy shade of red. "You snot-nosed little punk! You have no idea what you're talking about! The person who owns that cell phone is - ," He had been about to say "my brother," and he cut himself off with an effort. The last thing they needed was to let the story get out in the newspaper. "-is a kidnap victim. You- " he jabbed a finger at the man, and it came perilously close to Wilton's nose, "are impeding a federal investigation."

Don's face was suffused with fury, and David laid a warning hand on his arm, just as the door opened. Megan stepped in. "Don," she quietly, "phone. It's the Assistant Director."

Don's head jerked up as if he'd been shot, and his eyes searched her face. He looked down again, scowling; then inclined his head toward the reporter, as he looked at David. "Get his story." He pointed again at the man. "You need to talk. This isn't some petty local crime here. You clam up on a federal case, and you're in deeper water than you care to be."

He turned away and followed Megan out of the room. Colby yanked the reporter's chair as easily as if it had wheels, and faced him nose to nose, his blue eyes boring into Wilton's dark ones. "The guy who owns that phone is a personal friend of mine," he said; the softness in his voice more menacing than a yell. "I'd start talking if I were you." The man stared back and gulped, turning an ugly shade of greenish white.

Don shut the door behind him and faced Megan. "I talked to the A.D. before I met with LAPD," he said quietly, outside the door. "What gives?"

She looked away, a bit guiltily. "He asked me to keep him updated," she said quietly. "He knows it's a kidnapping now, and it's a member of your family. When he heard, he wanted to pull you off the case."

Don's eyes flashed angrily, and he went to move past her. "No goddamn way," he retorted, headed for the phone.

She laid a restraining hand on his arm. "I talked him into leaving you on, with another agent in charge – don't yell at him, or you'll make him change his mind."

He paused, scowling. "Who's the other agent?"

She shrugged and looked up at him apologetically. "Me."

He looked down at her, and his face softened. "Well hell, that's – that's good." He stared at her for a minute, earnestly. "Thank you."

She smiled back, a small one, considering the circumstances, but the corners of her eyes crinkled slightly, as she held his gaze. "Don't mention it. You'd better pick up that phone."

David and Colby came out of the room as Don finished his conversation with the Assistant Director. "Yes, thank you sir. Yes sir, I will." He hung up the phone and looked at them expectantly. Colby looked back at him smugly.

"Wilton thought better of it after you left the room," said David. "He gave us a description of the girl – matched Jessica to a tee. She was driving a white van – and he got a plate number." Colby had made his way to his computer and began to bring up the DMV site.

Don grunted approvingly, and then his forehead creased. "The video looked like it was taken in the back of a van – that must be it."

"Damn," said Colby, staring at the computer screen. "It figures." Their heads turned toward him and he swiveled to face them, shaking his head. "Guess who the van's registered to. Marquis Sanders."

Megan's eyes glinted. "Our old friend Markie. Maybe we have something on him, this time."

For the first time in a day, Don felt a flutter of hope. He quirked an eyebrow at Megan. "Okay, lead agent, what's our next move?"

She grinned back. "Let's pay a little visit to our pal Markie."

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END Chapter 11


	12. No Means No

**Title: ****Julia**

**Chapter 12: ****No Means No**

Megan regarded her boss across the conference room table with sympathy and concern. Don looked terrible; the lack of sleep and food and the unimaginable stress of the past hours had taken their toll. The stubble on his face seemed to accentuate the shadows under his eyes and cheekbones; the eyes themselves were bloodshot, and filled with barely suppressed agony.

Don had just finished calling Alan, Megan knew; she hadn't heard the discussion, but considering the news that Don had to give him, she imagined that it had been a heart-rending conversation. The mood of the entire group had gone from hopeful to anxious to subdued; there was still tension there to be sure, but it was tempered by despair.

Their visit to Markie had generated very little information. He admitted that he had allowed Jessica to borrow the van, but claimed he had no idea what she was using it for. The agents had known that he was a suspected drug dealer, among other things, but they had never been able to pin anything on him, and the present time was no exception. They threatened him with increased surveillance, with putting his business under a microscope, but without some kind of evidence against him it was an idle threat, and Markie was smart enough to know it. They had put out an APB on the van, but there were no hits so far.

When the next call came, things went from bad to worse. They had been sitting in the conference room, along with Liz and the technician, trying to brainstorm their way through the current facts, and come up with another way to generate a lead. At the sound of Don's cell phone, and the resulting look on his face as he handed it to the technician; everyone in the group rose to their feet, and banded around him. They were dreading the next message, and hoping at the same time that somehow it would give them a clue. Don made sure that the technician had the phone connected to the monitoring system before he grabbed it again, flipping it open with shaking hands.

This time he looked at the display before he even bothered to speak. Sure enough, there was Charlie, again. This time, his brother was suspended in some kind of torture device. Don could see that he was still bleeding, and as he moved through nausea into an odd sort of detachment, he noticed that she had removed the splint from Charlie's arm. He clutched the phone tightly in both hands as the team silently watched the newest video play on the presentation screen in the conference room. Don concentrated on making his thoughts transmit through his hands and directly into Charlie, somehow. "I'm coming, Buddy," he thought over and over. "I'll find you, and then I'll kill the bitch."

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Julia congratulated herself as she dropped the transmitting cell phone into the U.S. Postal Service drop box. It thudded gently, dropping onto the day's mail, and she smiled as she walked back to the van and climbed inside. Good. She had chosen this busy street on purpose, knowing the box would probably be well-used. She didn't want the cell crashing to the metal bottom and breaking before Don had seen all the video. She was nothing if not intelligent.

She started the engine and checked the rear view mirror, pulling into traffic carefully. As she headed back toward the warehouse – via International House of Pancakes – she began to hum, slightly off-key. Perhaps she would get an order of her favorite to go, as well. She doubted that Charlie was hungry, but Julia was relatively certain she could find something interesting to do with the whipped cream on top of the waffles. She laughed at the idea, sputtering a little at the end as her mood suddenly changed. She had been telling Charlie the truth, to a certain extent, when she taunted him about his brother's slightly less inhibited action in the bedroom. During their one and only night together, Don had hardly blinked when she padded from the bedroom in search of a tub of Cool Whip. Now, the memory reminded her why she was doing this in the first place. One night – less than one night, really. After half the night, she had understood that she and Don were compatible on a deep and lasting level; she had been convinced that he would be both exciting in the bedroom and satisfy an even deeper yearning that she was just beginning to acknowledge herself. He would be her life's partner, in every way, and it would be delicious, and amazing.

She frowned, growing less hungry for food by the second – and more hungry for revenge. He had no right to leave her. He had no right to use her that way. He had no right to lead her on. He had no right to live without her; at least not happily. Never happily. Now that he knew Charlie suffered because of him, his happiness was, at best, on hold. Once she got him to the warehouse and took Charlie's pathetic little life in front of him, Don would never be happy again.

She gave up on IHOP and stayed on the freeway, heading back for the warehouse. Don had to suffer a little more, first. She cranked up Foreigner's "Cold as Ice", content in the timing of that particular song hitting on the Classic Rock CD at that particular moment. She screamed along with it, secure in the knowledge that the cash she had socked away in the health club locker was waiting. After Charlie was dead, and Don was still so out of it he couldn't move, Julia/Jessica would have plenty of time to retrieve the money, along with the fake ID and passport stored with it. She would be in Jamaica on a private jet before Charlie's body was cold.

It had never mattered that they not know who she was. She _wanted_ them to know who she was. The prepaid cells and elaborate plans had been final gifts to Don, her little FBI agent. One last thing for him to care about investigating. Her mood was still dark, and her determination grew. She decided, as she approached her genius, that she could give Don a last video, as well. He could replay it in his mind for the rest of his miserable life. She almost chuckled, thinking about Don watching _that_. Oh, damn yeah, that was good. Definitely worth another little shot of the Rock, if the first one had worn off. She tilted her head slightly, reconsidering. Maybe not. It might be more effective if Charlie was aware of what was happening.

She waited for the warehouse bay door to slowly lift, still thinking, still planning. After this video, she further decided, she would move him to another piece of equipment – maybe to something conventional, like The Stretcher – and then implement her ballsiest plan for delivery. Julia was sure that by this time, Don was full-out G-man at the Bureau, using all his resources to find Charlie. While he worked himself senseless, she would drive to his apartment, and leave the phone on his welcome mat.

Stupid bastard.

It must be genetic.

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The second phone had been traced to a mail drop-box on a busy street uptown. The frustrated agents were forced to wait for a federal judge to execute a warrant before they could force the U.S. Postal Service to open the box and give them the phone. It was even more frustrating, knowing they probably wouldn't get anything from it anyway.

Sure enough, forensics confirmed that there were no prints, and a relatively quick search showed that it was not purchased from the same location as the first prepaid cell had been. Nevertheless, the team launched a more extensive search to determine its origin. While Colby and David concentrated on that, Megan finally persuaded Don to let her drive him to the safe house, so he could get a few hours of rest. Not that she expected him to get any; but maybe it would help him to at least spend some time with his father. Megan knew for a fact that it would help Alan.

Halfway to the safe house, Don talked Megan into stopping at his apartment. "I've got an agent with me to provide back-up," he argued. "Plus, LAPD has a car on the place. If Jessica dared to show up there, we'd have her already. I just need to get some clothes. Maybe my shaving kit, and a toothbrush." Megan finally acquiesced.

Things seemed calm enough when they arrived. They made the unmarked LAPD unit immediately, and stopped to talk to the plainclothes detective. "Nothing unusual," he assured them, staring up through his car window at Don sympathetically. He indicated a stack of photos on the seat beside him. "Couple of guys asked me if I was waiting for someone, and that overweight nurse who lives next door to you stopped and talked about the weather for a while…."

Don stiffened, and Megan looked at him worriedly. "What?"

He returned her gaze with both confusion and dread on his own face. "She's out of town until next week," he whispered. "I'm feeding her damn cat."

Megan immediately drew her weapon and planted herself between Don and the world at large. "Should we call in some back-up?"

The LAPD officer spoke up, defensively. "She was fat, and was in a uniform, and her hair was just like the picture! She left just a few minutes after she got here, and she was wearing different clothes…."

Don pushed at Megan, He spoke frantically. "Upstairs. Upstairs."

Propelled forward, she barely had time to bark "Cover us!" over her shoulder. The trio hurried up the outside staircase, turned into the interior corridor that led to Don's apartment, and cautiously approached.

Megan felt, saw and heard Don rush past her in a blur, and she instinctively reached out to stop him and missed. "Oh, my God," he whimpered, and she followed his eyes.

Her own narrowed when she saw the cell phone lying in the hall, outside Don's door.

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Julia smiled to herself as she remembered the fool of a cop; he had fallen completely for her fat nurse disguise. She had used it before, to get into the building unnoticed, and it had come in handy again. The fat suit had been a good investment. She glanced in the rear view mirror to check her hair, and was pleased with what she saw.

She was positively blooming.

She looked happy and confident and trustworthy and…sated. She would have no trouble convincing someone to help her with the next step.

Julia nearly skipped like the children in the playground as she searched the park for a likely suspect.

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Stella Inabe smiled at the pretty girl beside her on the bench, just outside the perimeter of the playground. She enjoyed her afternoons at the park, the laughter and screams of excited children filtering past the pages of whatever book she was reading. Her husband didn't approve. He was afraid that Stella was causing herself unnecessary pain by immersing herself for a few hours into the world they had so recently learned would never be theirs. Stella couldn't make him understand that the pain was bittersweet, and the decision was beyond her control anyway. Her barren and atrophied womb acted like a magnet to draw her here. For a few moments, on a good day, Stella could almost convince herself that one of the children was hers.

Today had been a good day, and Stella was peaceful, and happy. A tiny blonde, long hair flowing in the breeze, had smiled shyly at her when she had passed the bench clutching her mother's hand, and that was all it took. All was right with the world, again. Even though this woman's request was a little bizarre, it was romantic. Besides, Stella knew she could not share her playground joy with her husband, when she got home. Maybe he would believe she was so happy because she had helped this woman.

She carefully laid her book on the bench beside her and reached tentatively for the phone. "I'm honored to help you propose to your boyfriend," she assured the attractive redhead. "But, dear, what about your cell phone? Won't you be wanting that back?"

Julia flashed the smile that never failed to make its recipient feel special. It made another female feel like her best friend, and dropped men into her bed like flies; an image she found so humorous she actually snorted, a little. After all, men _were_ just pesky little insects…. "Oh, sweetie, it's just a little prepaid thing I picked up for this," she assured Stella. "You can keep it, or throw it away, whatever." Julia purposely thought of the star of her last video clip –naked, helpless Charlie on The Stretcher -- which made the heat rise to her face; she knew that would pass for a pretty blush. "I just so appreciate this," she gushed, reaching into her pocketbook. "This will be a story Don and I tell our grandchildren, Stella, and you'll always be an important part of it!"

Stella was so pleased she didn't even notice the somewhat awkward way the woman finally shoved the open purse at her as Julia rattled on. "I'm just so flustered, and excited, my hands are shaking! Here, just grab the phone and the paper next to it. It's a Word document, I typed out everything I'd like you to text message." She giggled as Stella gingerly reached in the bag. "My handwriting is so atrocious. Don is always teasing me about it."

Stella smiled again, gripping the cell and the folded sheet of paper. "I know what you mean. My husband claims he can't read my grocery lists. Now, I should give you 15 minutes, right?"

Julia gifted Stella with another beatific smile and stood from the bench. "That would be perfect. By the time you're finished texting him, I should be ready and waiting for the next part of my pl…proposal!"

"I'm happy to meet you, Jessica, and glad to help. You and your man have a good marriage. Lots of babies."

Julia managed to keep the smile plastered on her face despite the sudden, sick, feeling in her stomach. The J-Rock had presented undeniable opportunities, and she had literally jumped on them with wild abandon. That little son of a bitch better not have gotten her pregnant in the last two days.

If he had, she'd just have to give him CPR so she could kill the bastard again.

End Chapter 12


	13. Rocket Man

**Title: ****Julia**

**Chapter 13: ****Rocket Man**

All pretense of Don getting some rest was abandoned with the discovery of the cell phone at his apartment. It was all Megan could do to keep the Team Leader from shooting the LAPD officer who had let Julia/Jessica slip by. Forensics teams from both the FBI and LAPD swarmed the complex, along with a hastily-summoned David and Colby.

Although no-one had really expected to find anything, it was still a sorry and silent crew that took the elevator back to the bullpen almost two hours later. Megan wasn't sure how much more they could do, and she was pretty sure neither one of the guys knew, either. Still, they were going to do it. She knew that the four of them would hound forensics and pursue all hints of leads, in an all-out effort to find Charlie.

She shuddered, flashes of the last video playing through her mind. If Don had been upset before, this one had nearly killed him. Charlie had been stark-naked, lying on something that resembled a medieval torture device. His arms were stretched over his head, one twice the size of the other and grossly misshapen even in the poor-quality cell phone video. His wrists were secured to a hand cranking contraption, as were his ankles. The video had contained several clips. The first had panned over his naked, stretched form, and that was painful and shocking in and of itself. Then, the brazen bitch had smiled directly into the camera herself, waving and mouthing an elaborate "Hi, Don". Finally – and this was the part that bent Don over in the corridor outside his apartment in silent, spasmodic retching – Jessica had arranged the phone somehow so that she could co-star in her own video. In all of her years in law enforcement, Megan had never seen anything as twisted and depraved as what that woman did to Charlie. Although there was no sound with the video, the misery and pain on his face had been apparent even before he started crying. When forensics had cleared the apartment, Megan had stepped into the bathroom to be sick, herself.

They were nearly back to Don's desk when his cell rang again, and he stumbled, causing Colby to slam into his back. "Oh, God," moaned Don. "I can't watch anymore."

Colby took a step around him and held out his hand. "Give it to me," he suggested gently. David and Megan completed a protective circle around Don as his eyes watered and he snatched the phone from his belt, shoving it at Colby without looking. Colby flipped it open and waited. After a few moments his eyes lifted a little in surprise and he looked back at Don. "It's not a video. It's text."

Don grabbed the cell back, and four sets of eyes peered down at the screen. "_Hello, lover_," they read.

"Bruce!", yelled Don without looking to see if the forensics technician was in the conference room where they had left him several hours earlier. "Bruce!" The four began to move toward the room in an odd, synchronized crabwalk that would have been funny under any other circumstances.

Bruce met them in the hallway, and snuck in his hand to take the phone and plug it into his equipment, beginning a trace. Then he offered it to Don. "Maybe you'd better answer?"

Don stood transfixed for a moment, then obeyed. _"Where is my brother?"_

The wait for another message was interminable, which was both maddening and good – there was a better chance of a trace before she dumped the phone somewhere. Finally, a string of words appeared: "_Charlie's not doing so well. I think you should come and see him." _

A low sound of distress escaped Don as he frantically texted back. _"Where? When?"_

Seconds dragged on like hours before the next message flashed before the agents: _"Will text location of payphone at 8. Must come alone. Watching."_

Don didn't even wait to see if that was the entire message, but began entering his own right away. "_Now_," he demanded. "_Come now."_

The response from Jessica's end did not take so long, this time, being only one word: "_Patience._"

The screen went black and the agents looked anxiously at Bruce, who smiled. "We got a location two minutes ago. I dispatched LAPD right away. You guys want the address too?"

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Stella chewed on her bottom lip, checking the Word document occasionally to be sure of the message. The pretty young woman certainly knew her boyfriend. He had done exactly what she had anticipated he would, almost word-for-word. Keying in her next response, Stella wondered vaguely if the brother was really in on the proposal too. Probably, since this Don seemed so concerned about him. What a unique story this would make for generations to come!

Concentrating on her work, Stella did not even notice as the voices of the children died out, and a circumference of several hundred yards was silently cleared around her. In fact, it wasn't until a semi-automatic was placed literally inches away from her face, and she was ordered to "Freeze!", that she looked up and saw that she was surrounded, and alone.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Jessica sat next to Charlie's inert form, waiting. She had returned from her trip to find him drifting in and out of consciousness, and she had been brutal even by her own standards during the rape. As much as she hated to, she had finally released him from the device. He was fading, and she needed him for tonight. She couldn't let him die before she could kill him in front of his brother; that would surely complicate things. After untying him, she left him lying where he was, and briefly considered dressing him again. Eventually she decided against it. She had quite an evening planned, and she was already tired. It would be a waste of precious energy. She finally settled for digging around in the back of the van until she found a filthy blanket, which she tossed carelessly over him. The slight breeze and the weight brought him up from his stupor enough that he curled onto his side, groaning as he painfully moved his arms down and his legs up until he had achieved a semi-fetal position. Throughout, his eyes remained closed.

Julia suddenly felt a little sentimental about the fool, and she quietly stepped over him to lie down behind him, spooning around him. Unbelievable – the idiot actually relaxed into her embrace a little. If she wasn't so tired herself, she'd have a good laugh over that one.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Don drove the L.A. streets, the street lights flashing past in the darkness. Jessica's text had come at eight, as promised, and she had directed him to a payphone on West Mission Boulevard in Pomona. He had met with his team that afternoon, and against his wishes, Megan had dictated that he could not go alone, and that they would follow in two vehicles.

Don only agreed on the condition that they stay well away from him, five to ten miles, based on whether they were in the city or more open country, and that he would direct them via his cell phone. He had his earpiece in so he could talk without being obvious to someone following him, and when he stopped at the pay phone, he would remove the phone altogether. He had taken off his service revolver, but had it tucked in a holster under his seat. In addition to the GPS chip in his phone, there was another on his vehicle. A third was actually embedded in his ankle with some kind-of high tech pressure injector that left a wound so tiny, it didn't even bleed. Still sickened by the last video of Charlie and reluctant to risk losing Don, Megan had insisted on that one, too. The slight delay waiting for it caused nearly drove Don to distraction. All three chips were being tracked by the technician in the conference room.

Liz had wanted to be part of the team, but Don had spoken privately with Megan and asked her to decline Liz's request. He had no idea whether or not Jessica knew that he had been seeing Liz, but if she did, it would make Liz a target, and he was determined not to put her in a dangerous position. Megan agreed, and instead had asked Liz to head the communications post in the conference room. Now they were on their way, Colby and David each driving a vehicle, and Megan riding shotgun with Colby, handling the communication with Don.

He saw the pay phone up ahead, sitting a few feet from the street corner, and removed his phone, pulling into the nearest parking spot he could find. He stepped out of his SUV, moving casually, but keenly aware of the time. Jessica had given him a half hour to get there, and he had five minutes to spare. He stopped and waited at the pay phone, glancing around him, trying to pick up a possible observer. He could feel impatience rising in him, and he tried to force it down.

His mind wandered back to the horror of the last 24 hours, and especially the video on the phone found outside his apartment. He wasn't even embarrassed that he had gotten sick after watching it. If the victim been a complete stranger, he would have found if appalling. Hearing a victim describe a rape in detail was upsetting. _Watching_ one? When the "victim" was your own brother? What Don felt was no longer even on the charts. He couldn't begin to imagine what Charlie was going through; the mental torture of finding that the woman he loved was someone else, someone evil, had to be horrible enough, and coupled with the physical punishment, the brutal rape… Coherent thought trailed off as the picture played in his mind again, the look of agony on his brother's face, the tears; and he put a hand on the pay phone stand, suddenly needing support. The phone rang shrilly and he jumped, pulled away from the ghastly memory with a start.

He seized the receiver. "Eppes," he said tersely.

Her voice was cold. "_Go to the pay phone at the corner of North Asuza and Gladstone. It's at the edge of the convenience store lot. You have twenty minutes_."

The line clicked dead, and he stared at it for just a second; then ran for his SUV.

Jessica had parked the van in the next block and stood in a small grocery store, pretending to examine magazines on the newsstand as she looked out of the window. She saw Don's SUV come through the intersection, and waited. It was a well lit intersection, and it was easy to pick him out. Fifteen minutes later she saw his team go through in two vehicles, one behind the other. She knew they would be following; and now she knew how closely. They were keeping well back. Fifteen minutes was plenty for her purposes.

She proceeded to the van, and started it up, rounding the block and heading back out of town. Don's next stop would lead him well out of the way, allowing her a sizable head start.

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Megan voice came over Don's earpiece. "_It doesn't make sense. She's got us backtracking; we spent forty minutes driving around L.A._. _Then she brings you out way out of town to some little strip mall, and now you're going to stop again, just fifteen minutes down the highway."_

Don's brow was furrowed, but his voice was calm. "She's probably set up some kind of surveillance. It's pretty open out here; there's not much between these towns. You're going to need to drop back, or whoever is watching is going to pick you up. Check with David to see if he's picked up any sign of a tail, and pull over somewhere and give me some space. I'm coming up on the truck stop."

Her instructions had sent him to an isolated truck stop on a two lane highway well out into the hills, between a widespread scattering of small towns. He could see it ahead; it was the only thing on this stretch of highway for miles since the last town. He pulled into the lot; and at the edge of it, sitting almost in shadow, was the pay phone stand. He parked near it and as he jumped out of his SUV, he noticed a truck driver striding across the lot toward it, and he hustled to make it to the phone first.

He stood in front of it protectively as the truck driver approached, belatedly wondering if he was someone she had hired, and wishing for his service weapon. The man moved toward the phone, and Don stopped him, speaking gruffly. "I'm waiting for a call."

The truck driver eyed him with annoyance. "Stuff it, buddy, I need the phone." In the next instant he found Don's FBI badge and ID in his face.

"I'm waiting for a call," repeated Don tersely. "FBI business. Back off." The truck driver shot him an uncertain glance and then shuffled away, back beyond Don's SUV, and Don kept a suspicious eye on him as he waited.

The phone rang and he whirled and grabbed it, grimacing as his hand contacted something cold and wet-feeling on the receiver. He grabbed the bottom of the receiver in his other hand but kept it to his ear, looking at the clear gel on his hand in confusion and disgust as he answered the phone. "Eppes."

"_Hang up the phone. I'm pulling in behind you. When I stop, get in the van." _

Don spun and caught sight of her approaching van. She must have been parked just the other side of a group of semi's. It was too late to get anything from his SUV without her seeing him; his cell phone and his service weapon sat useless in the vehicle. Cursing himself mentally, he wiped the offending gunk on the leg of his pants as she pulled to a stop in front of him.

"Get in," she ordered curtly, through the open window. Her face was in shadow, and he couldn't see her features until he stepped up into the van. He sat and shut the door, and she immediately tossed him a rag. "Wipe your hand."

He looked at her in confusion, and a feeling of uneasiness took hold of him. He wiped his hand absently, staring at her, then abruptly at his hands, as they fumbled with the rag as if they had forgotten how to move. The rag dropped from the hands into his lap, and the uneasiness turned to fear as his arms followed, having suddenly turned into lead weights. He slumped against the seat, and his head rolled, as she felt through his clothing to assure herself that he had no weapon, no phone.

"You don't want too much of that gel on you," she said brightly. "A little will paralyze you. Too much will keep you from breathing. Uh–uh," she said suddenly, and she reached over and pulled his upper lids, which had been drifting shut, into an open position, and held them for a second. "We don't want these to stay closed. You'll want to see what's going on." She continued to hold them in place for a moment longer, as the paralysis settled in his muscles, then satisfied that his eyes would remain open, put the van in gear and stepped on the gas, as he lay helplessly in the seat, fear rising inside him.

She pulled out of the lot, past the gas pumps, and smiled at him. "You've just been dosed with ketamine, normally used as an animal tranquilizer," she said in a matter-of-fact voice, as if she was delivering a lesson to a student. "You can see, you can hear, but you can't move. It's an ingenious delivery system; the ketamine is suspended in a gel, and is made highly absorbent by nanotechnology – nanoparticles – tiny particles, smaller than your skin cells. It's cutting edge chemistry."

She continued, smiling. "An esteemed chemist, a friend of mine, developed it – oh, and here's a bit of trivia for you. While he was developing it he needed the expertise of a high level mathematician to develop equations to calculate the rates of absorption. Guess who?" She laughed, and Don's heart twisted. "That was how I found out about your brother. Kismet, don't you think?" She sighed, happily. "We're going to have so much fun together."

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The truck driver watched the van pull out, scowling. Some government business. The guy was calling a hooker. He had seen plenty of them, pulling into the truck stops in their vans. Thank God he was happily married. He trotted over to the phone, grimacing as his hand came in contact with what was left of the gel. '_What in the hell is that?' _Unconsciously mimicking Don, he wiped his hand on his pants with a look of disgust and dialed. "Yeah, honey, it's me. I'm just outside of Cereta. My cell won't work here. I'll be home around 1:00 a.m. Okay, bye. Love you too."

He trotted back to his semi, which was idling, ready to pull out, feeling suddenly tired as he pulled himself into his seat. The radio was blaring Elton John "…_I'm not the man they think I am at home, no, no, no, no – I'm a Rocket Man…"_

His limbs felt heavy. He put the truck in gear; his hand slipped suddenly from the gear shift, and he found himself leaning forward, helpless, his foot planted on the gas, his head resting on the top of the steering wheel, his arms dangling uselessly beside his torso. In terror, he watched the approaching gas pumps, and as the semi plowed through them, the last thing he remembered was a horrific sound, a blast of light and heat, and the sensation of flying.

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End Chapter 13


	14. He Never Loved You

**Title: ****Julia**

**Chapter 14: ****He Never Loved You**

Megan was already on her cell phone with Liz when Colby's rang, and he gripped the steering wheel hard with one hand while he snatched the phone off his belt with the other. Neither agent really registered hearing the other yell, "What?" at virtually the same time. The first thing Megan really noticed, as she disconnected her call, was that Colby was pulling the vehicle over to the shoulder of the sparsely-traveled highway.

She looked at him in confusion. "What are you doing? We're going to lose him!"

Colby brought a fist down hard on the steering wheel. "We already lost him, dammit! That was David – he found the SUV abandoned at a truck stop payphone. Don's service weapon and his cell are still inside. While David was calling forensics, he says the sky lit up like the Fourth of July. Some truck jackknifed, and both lanes are closed. David can't pursue."

Megan found herself slapping Colby's upper arm. "So?" she demanded impatiently. "All the more reason for us to be on the road! Follow the third GPS!"

"I CAN'T", Colby yelled back. "He's on the other side of the blockage, and still fuckin' moving! We have to wait until he stops before they can give us an alternate route."

"Shit." Megan slumped back in her seat. Momentarily, she held up her own cell phone as a visual aid, and spoke almost dully. "Liz checked in with Jacobs and his team. They found another alias – or maybe the original. Jessica graduated from Bryn Mawr eight years ago, chemistry. She was Jennifer Ricestone, then."

Colby's eyes widened. "Ricestone? The oil Ricestones?"

Megan nodded miserably. "This generation's only heir. She inherited millions at 21. Millions more will come when she's 30, but she'll never need them. The Pennsylvania database was wiped, but it was an amateur job. They noticed the tampering weeks ago, and just got it reconstructed." She glanced bitterly at Colby. "They actually called Charlie and asked him if he could fly out and help, but he's been so besotted with 'Julia', he's been stalling, trying to talk their techs through it on the phone. My God, Colby, Charlie's been helping on his own case!" A low moan was her only answer, so Megan continued her report. "Anyway, Jennifer was busted on a couple of misdemeanors while she was at Bryn Mawr, and almost expelled for some kind of scandal with one of her professors…." Tears welled in Megan's eyes as her persona changed from bitter to desperate. "Oh, Colby…. She's got money. She's got a chemistry background. She's got Don."

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

The warehouse bay door slowly lowered, and Julia/Jessica/Jennifer eyed her prizes calmly.

When she had gone after Don, she had secured Charlie in a conventional way that was also a thinly-veiled insult to Don. She had handcuffed his wrists, and bound his ankles with rope just to be safe. He was awake, now, shivering under the carelessly tossed blanket, and staring at her and Don in the front of the van. In his eyes, she knew, Don was staring right back, but saying nothing, and making no move to help him.

Live with it.

Better yet, die with it.

She opened the driver's door and spoke loudly as she got out, for Charlie's benefit. "You see? I told you. He just lies there like a lump of Play-Doh. I can understand why you find your baby brother pathetic, Don."

She forced herself to maintain a strolling gait as she crossed behind the van and came up to the passenger door. She opened it wide. The open door prevented Charlie from seeing inside of the van in any way other than the windshield. She leaned inside and kissed the paralyzed lips, regretting for a moment that the ketamine worked so well. Then she pulled back, making sure Don was still frozen in place. "Don't worry, lover," she cooed, "we'll be out of here soon. You just stay right there and I'll take care of it."

In a few more steps, she knelt down and ran her hand through Charlie's curly hair. He flinched, and she fisted her fingers and banged his head roughly into the cement floor she had rolled him onto when she was finished with The Stretcher. "Don hates you," she hissed. "He arranged all of this. He and I are leaving tonight, but he wanted to watch you die, first."

Charlie's eyes flickered to the windshield of the van, to the open door, and back to the windshield, again. Don was staring straight at him, not saying a word. "Donnnn…," he croaked, dehydrated and wounded almost completely beyond words. "Hel…"

His head was banged into the floor again, and the van began to spin lazily in front of him. Julia laughed, and the sound was harsh in his ears. "Big Brother isn't going to help you, Charlie. Don't you understand, yet? He wants this. Don is sitting in the damn get-away car, waiting for me to finish you off." In truth, after she slit Charlie's throat, while Don was still paralyzed, Julia intended to leave him sitting in the van staring helplessly at the body, while she took the back way out of the warehouse. Her cheap – but dependable – little used Rabbit sat out in back, just waiting to take her to the airport. Eventually, someone would get around to searching the warehouse. By now, they had to know she had Markie's van. They had probably questioned him once, already. He was good for a while, but it wouldn't take him long to deal. He would protect his own interests by suggesting places she could search, and he had been at that rave, too. Don was a healthy young specimen, though. She was planning on him still being alive by the time they got here. Alive, and wishing he was as dead as his brother.

Charlie groaned, and tried to move beneath the blanket. A lone tear streaked down his filthy face, carving a trail through his two-day beard stubble. "D…." This time, he only managed the sound of one consonant, as he stared at Don through the windshield of the van.

Julia snickered again, and let go of his hair. She settled back on her haunches a little and arranged herself so that she was perpendicular to the van – she wanted Don to have a good view. With one hand she pulled the dirty blanket down, revealing the white expanse of Charlie's chest, stark behind more curly black hair. With the other, she withdrew what could have been an ink pen from the pocket of her jeans. It was about the same diameter, and length, but when she uncapped it, a triangle-shaped razor blade glinted in the dull light of the warehouse. "Just a little fun, first," she whispered to Charlie. She drew the blade down his jaw, pressing lightly, but not hard enough to draw blood. She raised her voice again, knowing the echo in the warehouse would carry at least part of her words to Don. "This is my wedding gift to Don, and I need to know that it's really what he wants. So you go ahead and call him. Beg your brother to save you. I'm betting he's saved you all the times he's going to. I'm betting he's tired of taking care of you, of watching his pain-in-the-ass kid brother get all the attention while he does all the work. He never loved you. He never wanted you." Julia moved the blade down slightly below one of Charlie's collar bones. "I'm betting Donnie doesn't move a muscle to help you, anymore, you sorry little shit."

She pressed harder, penetrating the skin now, and carved the first letter.

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Alan couldn't sleep.

He didn't even try, but sat on the small couch in the living room of the safe house and stared at the cell phone he clutched in his hand. Why hadn't Don called? It had been hours since their last conversation, when Don had told him about some kind of evidence that linked that woman to Charlie's disappearance.

Alan had heard the distress and worry in his eldest son's voice, and that had frightened him more than anything Don had said. He had been nonspecific at first, finally breaking down enough to whimper, "It's bad, Dad. I think it's bad." Alan had not been able to function properly ever since.

He had refused any food, or drink, or conversation with the agent who was guarding him. He didn't need protection. He needed his son. Both of his sons. Nothing would be right again until he had them back.

The more hours that passed without word from Don, or at least one of the other team members, though, the more Alan's heart filled with dread. He had refused to let the agent turn on the light in the tiny room, and he sat in the dark, knowing that the darkness was not due to the lack of the sun. The darkness had erupted from his own soul, and was caused by the lack of son.

The longer he sat there, the more terrified and convinced he became.

It would never be light again.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

"No."

Colby's voice was quiet, subdued, and he met Megan's eyes, knowing she had heard it, too.

Bruce had been on speaker, and there was no way she didn't hear him say that the third GPS chip, the one in Don's ankle, was malfunctioning. They couldn't get a read on it, they kept losing the signal. There was some kind of interference.

He hung his head, and said it again. "No…"

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Charlie's chest was slick with blood, and Julia was having a hard time with the third letter. In addition to the lack of surface tension, the mathematician was writhing and moaning in serious objection now, and she was a little surprised at the strength he was showing. She hadn't believed he had that much left in him.

His eyes remained opened and fixed on the van's windshield. If Julia hadn't been busy, she would have noted how alike the two brothers actually looked at that moment. Neither one appeared to be blinking, they were focused only on each other, and Don was crying tears that matched Charlie's. The chemist in her would have found that last part really interesting, and she even might have panicked a little. Without any muscle action to blink away the tears, Don's face was starting to look like someone had thrown a bucket of water on him. That would have been a dead give-away, if Charlie's own brain could have made the connection.

"Last one," she stated conversationally as she started to carve the "T". "Be sure to give it all you've got here, Charlie. Try to convince Don again to care about you one last time. Because when I'm done here, it will be time to finish."

"Dah….," gasped Charlie, in a voice so loud that Julia was once again impressed by his reserves. "Dah…."

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End Chapter 14


	15. Listen to the Night Scream

**Title: ****Julia**

**Chapter 15: ****Listen to the Night Scream**

A group of stunned, sleep-deprived truckers, having just moved their rigs to clear enough space, watched the LAPD chopper land in the parking lot. David shot out of the safe zone before it was safe, in a low, crouching run. He scrambled onto the chopper as hands reached out to haul him in. He yelled, even though he knew he wouldn't be heard over the sound of the rotating blades. "GO! GO! GO!"

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Colby slammed the siren onto the roof and burned rubber pulling back out onto the highway. "It's going to take us an hour to backtrack and go around. AN HOUR. Thank God LAPD can chopper David out there."

Megan shivered. "And Bruce. If he hadn't managed to hold onto that signal for as long as he did…."

Colby glanced sideways at her, even though he was driving 100 miles an hour. "You heard his voice. He's not sure. If Merrick hadn't leaned on LAPD, they wouldn't have diverted one of their choppers, based on his information."

She grimaced. "Please don't tell me I have to Thank God for Merrick, too."

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Julia had checked the van to be sure Don was watching – although it wasn't as if he had a choice in the matter – and had clearly seen the tears. Time to move things along. Yet, even as she stood to remove all of her own clothing, to avoid spattering it with blood and giving herself away at the airport, she looked at the beautiful "S –L –U –T" carved in Charlie's heaving chest and had another idea. A thin line of blood was trickling again from his mouth, and she knew he would die anyway soon. While she was tempted to let his death be slow, it was more important that Don see it in brutal suddenness.

She kicked off her shoes and stripped off her clothes, and knelt down beside Charlie again. As she leaned over him, she had to be careful not to dip her full breasts in the blood all over his chest. That would sort of defeat the purpose. In the end, she had to use one arm to hold them back. She pressed the bloody Xacto against his carotid artery, and noted that his eyes had at last given up on Don, and he was looking at her. "Julia." He spoke the name clearly, and quietly, and she was surprised when it almost broke her heart.

The unaccustomed emotion threw her for a moment, and she looked at him uncertainly. The spell was broken when she looked back at the van, at Don. Rage rose in her again. Don had played her, and now his brother was trying to. They were both the same, liars, manipulators.

Her lips curved in an evil smile, and she glanced back at Charlie. It was time. She raised the knife, looking back at Don to make sure he was looking, and a thought occurred to her. Don might not realize that this was it; perhaps from that distance he couldn't discern the difference between the slashes she made in Charlie's chest, and the new position of the knife against his neck. She had to be sure; he had to know that she was ending his brother's miserable life. She rose, and padded toward the van in bare feet.

Later, when she had time to think about it, she would understand that was the moment when everything changed. Her sentimental hesitation had thrown off an intricate balance of timing – had delayed her; had made her change her actions, and by so doing, changed the final outcome.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Unwilling to give away their rescue attempt with a noisy chopper, David had them land almost five miles away from the warehouse. A sheriff's patrol car was waiting to take him and the two LAPD marksmen the rest of the way. David felt this was a necessary precaution, but it rattled his last nerve to do it, anyway. This was going to slow them down, and every fiber of "hinky" in his soul told him that time was of the essence.

Now in the vehicle, they raced toward where the signal was last heard. David spoke tersely into his cell phone. "Bruce – do you still have a signal?"

"_Negative," _came the reply. "_We're going to have to go off of the last location."_

"We're coming up on it now," replied David. The road they were on was barren, unpopulated, and the only buildings that could be seen were a half mile down the road, a grouping that looked like a small manufacturing outfit. A light twinkled in one of the windows, and David flipped his cell phone shut. "Pull in quietly," he ordered, and leaned forward, watching the approaching buildings.

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Charlie dazedly watched her walk away, toward the van. There was a strange roaring in his ears, and he couldn't collect his thoughts. He was swimming in a sea of pain and despair, but the feelings were growing more distant, numbness was setting in. The lights were dimming, he thought with detachment. He knew somehow that the end was coming, and he welcomed it with all of his soul. He was done, spent, his will to live demolished by the pain, both the physical pain and the emotional agony. The last thing he remembered as the darkness descended was his brother's face, staring at him impassively from the windshield. As he closed his eyes, he could feel his heart break.

Julia leaned into the van and grabbed Don's face, wet with tears, and turned it slightly to face her, her bloody hands marking his jaw. "This is it, lover," she purred. "I'm going to slit your brother's miserable throat." Her hand tightened on his jaw and she hissed, "You did this. Remember that, you son of a bitch, while you watch. This is your fault." She carefully positioned his head again, and noted that he twitched slightly. The ketamine was wearing off. No matter. She only needed a moment.

She turned and headed back toward Charlie, noticing with a frown that his eyes were closed. This would not do. She wanted him to know he was dying. She quickened her pace, and as she reached his side, she knelt, fishing in the pocket of her discarded pants for a packet of smelling salts. Crushing the packet and holding it to his nose, she picked up the knife with her other hand. His eyes flickered open, and she smiled with satisfaction. "Your brother said it's time to say good-bye, Charlie."

Don watched in horror as she lifted the knife. "_God, no, please, no_." He felt as if he were going to explode with emotion, terror and despair made his head whirl, his heart pound. His body quivered, then jerked spasmodically. The ketamine was wearing off, he realized, but he knew with sickening certainty that it was going to be too late.

Julie twisted her hands in Charlie's hair and lifted his chin just slightly, preparing to position the knife. Power surged in her, and her chest heaved with excitement, her eyes glittering. The adrenaline was so potent, that she jumped nearly a foot when she heard the barked command.

_"Drop it!"_

She whirled, the beautiful face made ugly by fear and hate. She could see one of Don's agents, advancing toward her, his head cocked; sighting down his forearm to the end of his leveled pistol. Tightening her grip on Charlie's hair, she lifted him partially against her, the knife against his throat. At the movement, a flash of pain swept across his face; his eyes shut, and he slumped against her. "Back off!" she spat. "Back off, or I slit his throat."

"Put it down," said David levelly. His voice resonated with authority, and a coolness that he definitely didn't feel.

She glanced sideways and picked up the LAPD marksman and a sheriff's deputy to her left, and swiveled slightly, trying to put Charlie's body between her and both of them, unaware of the second marksman who had entered a side door behind her. As she did so, the second man fired; the round blasted into her right shoulder with a force that flung her arm straight forward, and sent the knife skidding across the floor.

She screamed with pain and rage, and thrusting Charlie's body away from her, sprang forward, trying to make it through the gap between David and the first marksman. There was blood on the floor, and she slipped just a bit, and that was all it took. David tackled her with a flying leap, and they went down in a tangle of arms and legs.

She fought, kicked and bit like someone possessed, screaming obscenities, and it took all three of them to subdue her. Finally, they had her cuffed and on her stomach, and the deputy and one of the marksmen sat on her to keep her there.

David straightened, breathing heavily, and flipped open his phone as he ran toward Charlie. "Megan – we've got them – we need an ambulance -," he shot a glance toward the van, just in time to see Don slide out of it, feet first, then collapse on the floor. "More than one – we've got three injured. Tell them to hold the chopper – we may need it."

The blanket had slipped from Charlie's body, and he lay there, nude, bloody and so pale that David feared the worst. He gasped in relief as he picked up a pulse, faint but there, and he pulled the blanket back over Charlie's inert form, then shot to his feet and headed toward Don.

It was one of the most pitiful sights he had ever seen. Don was on his stomach, crawling weakly, awkwardly toward Charlie, his face tear streaked and filled with horror. David knelt by him. "It's okay, man. He's alive. What's wrong – are you hurt?" He flipped Don over; in spite of the resistance Don gave him, looking for signs of an injury.

"No," Don gasped. "Keth- kethamee." The word came out slurred.

"Ketamine?" David repeated.

Don craned his neck towards his brother. "Charlie," he implored.

David looked toward Charlie. One of the marksmen was kneeling next to him, checking his pulse. "Okay, just relax, I'm going to get you over to him."

He lifted Don under the arms, and dragged him across the concrete floor, depositing him gently next to Charlie. Sirens sounded in the distance. Don reached out like a drowning man and grasped his unconscious brother's shoulder, his eyes riveted on Charlie's pale face, as tears streamed from his eyes. "Don' go," he whispered. "Don' go."

---------------------------------------------

When Megan and Colby arrived, the first thing that struck them was the noise. The landing chopper blades were loud, but were nothing compared to the unearthly din inside. Julia was naked and pinned to the ground by the weight of a sturdy LAPD officer and a sheriff's deputy, who both looked at little disconcerted by their predicament. She writhed and screamed like a banshee. Another officer that had come in behind them ran to help them, and together they grabbed her arms and lifted her.

Megan and Colby ran over to Don and Charlie. David stood over them, his jaw working with emotion, as another LAPD officer pushed a towel against Charlie's chest. As he lifted it, blood seeped into the slash marks, and the word carved into Charlie's skin was clearly visible. They stood in shock for a moment, and David moved suddenly and strode over to the suspect, his eyes flashing with fury.

"Get that bitch out of here," he said, his voice shaking with anger, "before I kill her."

Julia twisted in the officers' grasp, seemingly not feeling the wound in her shoulder. "Don Eppes, you bastard!" she screamed. She smiled suddenly; it was deranged, evil. "He's dying, and there's nothing you can do about it," she yelled toward Don, as they began dragging her out. "You did it to him, you did it, you son of a bitch…" The screams trailed off as they pulled her outside.

Megan knelt next to Don. He was struggling to prop himself on his elbow, his tortured eyes fixed on Charlie's face, and she gently helped pull him up. She looked up at David as he walked back to them, and he spoke, answering the question on her lips before she could ask it.

"Ketamine," he said briefly. "I think it's wearing off. She had him sitting in the van, watching the whole thing."

"Shit," said Colby quietly.

EMTs ran in loaded with equipment. "What have we got?" asked one. "We saw one victim outside."

"That one can go by ambulance," said David. He indicated Charlie. "This one is the most serious. Agent Eppes is recovering from a dose of ketamine."

The EMTs pulled the blanket back as the LAPD officer lifted the towel on Charlie's chest. They paused in shock for just a moment; then one began to speak into a radio.

Don heard them talking as if from a distance. "Multiple slash wounds… possible internal bleeding … multiple contusions...fractured left radius and ulna…. "

He heard Megan's quiet words. "When they get to the hospital, make sure they get forensic evidence – he was raped…"

"BP 55 over 40… pulse thready…"

They were lifting Charlie onto a stretcher, and Don could no longer touch him. He struggled to sit up, his limbs moving awkwardly. "Charlie," he gasped.

He felt hands on his shoulders, and then they shifted, lifting him, setting him gently on another stretcher. More hands appeared, pushing him down firmly. "I need to go with him," he pleaded. He found himself looking into the face of another EMT.

"Relax, agent," said the man. "We're going to try to get you both in the chopper."

Moments later, the agents were outside, watching as the techs maneuvered the stretchers. LAPD and another tech was loading Julia into an ambulance, she was strapped to a gurney, still screaming in fury. One of the EMTs in the chopper mouthed something that couldn't be heard over the din of the blades, and held up one finger.

"They can take one more," shouted Megan to Colby and David. "I'll go with them."

Colby nodded and shouted back. "David and I will go with the ambulance. I want to make damn sure she stays in custody."

Megan nodded, and yelled as she backed toward the chopper, wind whipping her hair. "Call the safe house on the way, get hold of Alan; tell him we're going to the UCLA Trauma Center.

They nodded, and watched as she leapt nimbly up into the chopper with a hand from the EMT. The noise and wind increased, and the chopper rose into the night.

End Chapter 15


	16. Humpty Dumpty

**Title: ****Julia**

**Chapter 16: ****Humpty Dumpty**

When the phone finally rang, Alan had sprung so far out of his chair that he made it halfway to the darkened light fixture suspended from the ceiling. He had set out immediately for the UCLA trauma center, driven by an agent who dropped him off at the entrance and went to park the car. He could hear the blades of the approaching helicopter, and as he looked up past the lights of the building into the night sky, he could see it hovering, like some kind of dark malevolent insect. He sent a prayer upward; then hurried into the building.

He looked around frantically, then dashed over to an information desk and spoke the woman behind it. "My sons – my sons are coming in a helicopter," he managed to gasp.

She looked at him kindly. "Is this the car accident?"

Alan stammered, "No – I don't think – I – ,"

"The other one, then," she murmured, her gaze turning sympathetic. "It's landing now. They'll be bringing them to Trauma 2 and 3," she said, pointing. "Go up this hall, turn right-," She got no further; Alan was already halfway down the hall.

The trauma team was standing in the hallway waiting for the elevators to open, and as Alan came up behind them, an orderly signaled for him to stand aside in a small alcove with a few chairs. The elevator chimed, and the hallway immediately churned with frantic activity. Alan saw them rush past first with Charlie; he caught a glimpse of his son's pale face, his eyes closed, and then a gurney followed with Don.

Don was sitting up on the gurney, trying to push back at the EMTs trying to push him down, and Alan noted with relief that his older son appeared intact; loud and angry, but intact. Megan trotted along behind him, her face grim.

They pushed Don into room 2, and Alan followed Megan right along with them.

"Get off me," roared Don, struggling to get off the gurney. He shoved an EMT so hard the man went sprawling, and Don immediately went over the open edge after him, staggering as his feet hit the floor.

"Don!"

"Donnie!" Megan and Alan both spoke at once, and Megan turned in surprise to see Alan behind her. Don stared at his father, an indescribable expression on his face, and pushed past him, out into the hallway.

"Sir," said the attending intern, following him out, "you need to be examined…."

Alan looked at Megan. "What in the hell's going on?"

She stared at him a moment, then just shook her head, and headed past him out of the door. She wasn't going to be the one to tell Alan, not if she could help it.

Don had pushed the swinging doors to room 3 open just slightly, and was peering in, one hand in the intern's face, who was hovering tentatively behind him. Alan opened his mouth, preparing to talk some sense into Don, but stopped as the conversation drifted out.

"Oh, shit, this is a mess! Get me some suction! We've got at least one perforation in the lower stomach. Damn… close him, just clamp it, we need to get him upstairs. Get Dr. Patesh on the phone, tell him to get to surgery stat!"

The group inside suddenly sprang into action, wheeling the gurney with all of its attached monitors, headed toward the door. Mobile, the contraption looked like some kind of weird mechanized monster, with Charlie laying at the center of it, pale and still, a tube hanging from his mouth.

Bright red blood was literally splattered on the walls on the room and everyone in it, Charlie having projectile vomited while doctors were trying to intubate him. Between the blood from the carvings on his chest and his own recent contribution, it was difficult to believe there was only one victim in the area. A red tint hung over everything and hit Alan like a sledgehammer between the eyes. "Oh, God…", he breathed, staggering back until hitting the solid wall of a hospital orderly who had responded to all the shouting.

The ragtag group at the doorway was ignored as orders continued to be shouted. "Have you got the nasogastric in?" was almost lost under a louder, more urgent call as the convoy suddenly stopped moving. "BP is dropping! Pulse is rapid and thready, Doc, I'm not sure this guy is going to make the trip upstairs!"

Don stood transfixed, swaying, pulling against hands that reached for him. Before he could summon the coordination to move or the will to speak, there was another shout. "HE'S DOWN! HE'S CRASHING!" A pair of scrubs split off the group and vaulted to the corner of the room, where a crash cart stood by. The red room began to swirl in his vision, and "BAG HIM!" was the last thing Don heard before he crashed, himself.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Julia had been transported to a different hospital, once Colby had shoved his badge in an EMT's face and threatened to shoot out the ambulance's tires from the inside, if they dared to take her to UCLA. The last thing his Team Leader, or anyone in his family, needed right now was to run into her in the Trauma Center. For the most part, her screams had died down to continual mumbles, but she would occasionally let loose like a banshee. Colby would be damned if Charlie would be forced to listen to that.

The paramedics had seen more than most people, but this ride was turning out to top the list. Confronted with a naked, shot, screaming woman; a seething, distraught man with a gun; and the happy fact that they were actually fairly far away from UCLA, they redirected to Cedars-Sinai.

They tried to treat her wound on the way. They tried to start IVs and administer medication. But Julia twisted and fought with remarkable strength, and in the end, all they could do was let her bleed all over the ambulance.

David watched the drama with a face set in stone, and thought it was still too good for her.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Once Don had crumpled to his knees, hospital personnel were able to keep him from breaking his nose on the floor — barely — and able to finally extricate him from Charlie's trauma room. Pliable in his unconscious state as he had not been since the rescue, he was finally outfitted with his own saline drip. Blood was drawn and rushed to the lab. All of this was done at lightspeed, before he regained consciousness again.

Alan had found himself rooted to the hallway floor in shock. One son had collapsed, unconscious, and the other hung on the brink of death. The vision of the blood-spattered room swam in front of his eyes, and numb, he allowed Megan to guide him to a chair in the little alcove. It was there that the emergency physician found him; bent over his knees, and delivered the news that they had stabilized Charlie. At the news, he took a deep breath, and the weight that lay on his chest began to ease. Slowly, he began to collect himself, and made his way into Don's room, where the trauma physician allowed him and Megan to wait.

Alan hovered near the end of the gurney, momentarily displaced by a nurse taking another set of vitals. He didn't take his eyes off his son's face, but it was obvious his low words were meant for Megan, who stood beside him. "What the hell happened?", he asked again, his voice wavering. "Did you see Charlie? My God, he looks like someone took a chainsaw to him!"

"We were tracking him," she murmured in a disjointed half-answer. "Don was never supposed to be alone with her…."

Alan finally turned away from Don and looked full at Megan, his eyes full of pain and his expression cold. "Well obviously, something went wrong. You almost got them both killed. For all I know, Ch…"

"Dad."

A croak emanated from the gurney and Alan whipped his head back around and hurried to Don, brushing the nurse impatiently out of his way. "Donnie?"

He buried a hand in the close-cropped hair and left it resting there, shaking. "Dear God, Donnie."

Don struggled to sit up, but it was pathetically easy for his father to hold him down. "Let me up. Leave her alone, the team found us. They found us because of the ankle chip Megan insisted on. Let me up."

"Stay down, Agent Eppes," ordered the nurse. "I've got a sedative, and I'm not afraid to use it." She held up a needle to illustrate her point.

Don groaned, but his struggles lessened. He looked up at Alan with suspiciously bright eyes. "Charlie," he whispered, all the heartbreak and terror of the last 24 hours finding their way into the two syllables.

Alan shushed him and ran his hand through his hair again, soothing his son. "He's in surgery, Don. Something about a gastric resection. The drug she gave him, it basically ate a few holes through the stomach wall."

Don swallowed convulsively, eyes still glued to his father's. "That was the blood. In the videos, there was so much blood…." A fat tear spilled out of one eye. "Dad, he lost too much blood…."

Alan hushed him again, speaking in a smooth, comforting, low voice that he had kept in reserve for years. It was used when his sons needed him, and the tone and cadence conveyed a strength and assurance he did not really feel. "He's hanging on, Donnie. Don't underestimate your brother. We've got him back now, and we're not letting go."

A second tear followed the first, as if it had been a scout for a much larger army, and Don shook his head a little impatiently. "How will they fix him?" His voice was tiny, and unsure, and he would have been embarrassed about Megan hearing him this way if anything other than Charlie mattered at all, right now.

The nurse had silently placed a chair behind Alan, and he sat gratefully and moved his hand to clutch Don's. With his other hand he patted the back of his son's hand while he spoke. "I won't lie to you, Donnie, it's serious. The doctor said they'll have to see the damage when they get in there – they didn't want to wait for scans. They may have to remove his stomach. Connect his esopoghas directly to his intestine."

Don squeezed his eyes shut. "How can he live like that?", he whispered.

Alan pulled out The Voice once more. "He can live with that because we'll help him. Hell, Don, some people have this sort of thing done on purpose. He'll come through this surgery, you'll see. Maybe later, another one for his arm. We'll put Charlie back together."

For the first time in his life that he could remember, The Voice did not work on Don. He kept his eyes shut against an onslaught of despair, seeing again the videos. They replayed, in consecutive order, on the back of his eyelids, and Don understood with absolute clarity that fixing Charlie had not yet begun.


	17. Your Nightmare Is My Reality

**Title: Julia**

**Chapter 17: ****Your Nightmare is My Reality**

Don sat beside his father in the surgeon's office, stared at the diagram and tried to make sense of all the gibberish.

He had been kept in the trauma examination bay the remainder of the night for observation, which had nearly killed Alan. The father had been concerned for both sons. He wasn't about to insist they release Don before he was ready. On the contrary, he wasn't convinced now, at the sight of his eldest's pale face, that he should be out of bed. Yet he needed to be in the surgical waiting room upstairs at the same time. Despite the ridiculous beeper the hospital had provided him, Alan had spent the night running back-and-forth between sons. Charlie's surgery had ended a few hours earlier, but he had been in recovery ever since and Alan still had not seen him. Before the doctor would allow either one of them to visit, he insisted on seeing them in his office.

Now, he held up a small hand-held white board, upon which was printed the torso of a man. The surgeon had scribbled lines and Xs on it, which he pointed to now, speaking as if Alan and Don were two of his interns. "Because of the emergency presentation, we were not able to perform the gastrectomy laproscopically. When you see him, almost half of his chest will be covered in surgical dressings, and you should be prepared for that. Besides the incision, which extends vertically from just below the breastbone to his navel, we addressed the…other injuries higher on his chest." He cleared his throat a little and set his face, so as not to reflect the horror he had felt upon seeing the word carved in Charlie's flesh.

"You took out his stomach?" Don asked in a shaking voice, repeating what he thought he had heard a few seconds earlier.

The doctor shook his head. "Not entirely, no. We were able to get away with a distal partial – the lower portion of his stomach was removed. The upper has been attached directly to his small intestine."

"For how long?"

The gasterenterologist glanced at Alan, and then back to Don. "It's a permanent thing, son," he answered gently. When Don blanched he hurried on. "You need to understand that this is a good outcome. We're simply rerouted the plumbing a little, and he can live a long and healthy life, with certain modifications to his lifestyle. This is rather like what some very obese people do via gastric bypass. The stomach is significantly smaller."

Alan interrupted. "What modifications?"

The doctor leaned back a little in his chair. "Well, he'll need to get in the habit of eating several times a day, for instance. His stomach will only be able to hold a small amount at any one time. We'll have to make sure he's absorbing enough vitamins, and minerals – probably with supplements. Your discharge coordinator will make sure all three of you understand everything."

Don latched onto the word. "Discharge? How long?" He seemed to keep repeating the same question. So far, he hadn't liked the answers.

"Probably close to ten days. This was a major operation, complicated by his other injuries. In addition, I understand your brother…." He trailed off.

Don bristled, for some unknown reason, and stiffened in his own chair. "What? My brother what?"

The surgeon calmly regarded the distraught pair before him, and tried to be as diplomatic as possible. "It's just that I understand that he was drugged repeatedly, kidnapped…tortured." He avoided the use of the word "rape", but it hung unsaid in the air.

At the word 'torture,' Alan cast a distressed sideways look at Don. He still hadn't heard the whole story of what had happened to Charlie; he knew about the kidnapping, and had assumed the injuries were caused by stab wounds. There was apparently a lot more of this that he hadn't heard yet.

The doctor continued. "When he is able, it would be in Charlie's best interests to take advantage of our fine psychiatric staff."

Don snorted, and Alan looked at him in surprise. "Yeah, doc, it'll be that easy," he said bitterly.

The doctor gently laid his visual aid on the desk. "I'm sure it will be anything but easy," he noted softly. "The two of you are encouraged to speak with our staff as well."

Don stood. "Let us see him," he demanded.

Alan pulled at his arm. "Don, Donnie, please…Dr. Trenton isn't finished, yet…"

The surgeon held up one hand, then stood himself. "I understand that you're both anxious to see him. Be prepared for the nasogastric tube; it will stay in for two or three more days." He waited for Alan to stand and then led the way to the door, still talking. "Also, it's extremely important these first few days that Charlie avoid gastrointestinal upset. We have him on a continuous drip of Phenergan, an anti-nausea medication. He received several units of blood during the surgery, but there may still be one dripping, at this point. Saline, too, of course." He paused, his hand on the doorknob, and looked at them. "Catheter. You could easily be overwhelmed by the amount of tubes, and monitors…."

Don started through the door as soon as Dr. Trenton opened it, but Alan held back a little and looked at him. "Will there be a ventilator?", he asked, his voice small. For some reason, he felt like he could handle anything, as long as he could watch Charlie breathe on his own.

The doctor smiled and guided him into the hall, a hand on his back. "That was removed in the recovery room," he assured Alan. "He is still receiving oxygen – via mask, because of the nasogas…"

"You two chat it up," growled Don, turning to stride down the corridor. "I'm going to see Charlie."

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

_Pain again. Something was wrong. Dead people shouldn't feel pain. _But it was there. Everywhere; in every form imaginable; it included everything from small aches, to the throbbing in his arm and the sharp sting in his chest. Worst was the agony in his midsection, at best it was nearly unbearable, and it was increasing, waves of intense pain washing over him.

He opened his eyes, slowly. He was in a small white room, in a bed, tethered to tubes and equipment. _Hospital. How did I get here? I'm supposed to be dead. Dear God, why am I not dead?_

He blinked, slowly, and a nurse's face came into focus. Black, round, with dark compassionate eyes. He remembered her, vaguely. He remembered waking up in another room; she had been there, and others, telling him to breathe, pulling something from his throat.

"Take some deep breaths, honey," she said, in a rich musical voice. He complied, and the movement of his diaphragm sent a wave of pain through him. The moan came out muffled by the mask on his face.

"I'll get you something for pain," she said. "We need to be sure you're out from under that anesthesia."

He closed his eyes, as pain of a different sort emerged, along with his returning thoughts. He could still see Don's face, emotionless and cold, watching from the van. How could his brother do this to him? At first he hadn't believed Julia when she said that Don had wanted him dead, but as the excruciating moments went on, and his cries for help went ignored, the horrific reality had set in, and with it, the will to live had gone.

He couldn't live with it, with the knowledge that the woman he had loved, and the brother he loved even more, had conspired to kill him. It wasn't fair that he was still alive. But here he was, helplessly tethered to equipment that was keeping him from death. There must be a purpose to it, somewhere.

His thoughts strayed to his father, and the grief he would have felt if Charlie had gone. That must be it – the reason for him to still be here was for his father. He clung to the thought, like a drowning man clings to a raft. Without it, he would surely submerge.

But what had happened? Who had found him? Had they found Don and Julia too? Were they in custody? The thought of his brother in custody sickened him. Or had they escaped? If they were still at large, Charlie had to believe that this was not over yet. They couldn't afford to let him live, to give him a chance to tell anyone what happened. The thoughts whirled in his brain, made foggy with the physical pain, and he clenched his eyes shut, trying to control his breathing.

-----------------------------------------------

Don strode down the hallway of the ICU, and stopped in the doorway to Charlie's room. A nurse was leaving, a plump, motherly-looking African American woman whose name tag said Charlene. She looked at Don. "Are you family?"

He nodded. "I'm his brother."

"Good," she said. "You can go in. I'm going to walk down to the nurse's station and make a call. The doctor ordered pain medication for him, and I want to see what is taking so long for those idiots to get it here."

She bustled down the hallway and Don paused at the doorway. Now that he was here, he was hit with sudden trepidation. The horror that his brother had gone through rose in his mind, the images from the cell phones, the rape, the final moments before rescue. His brother's cries sounded in his ears again, and he was struck again with the knowledge, the guilt, that it was his fault. If he had let his family know from the beginning about Jessica, maybe none of this would have happened…

He could see his brother's still form from the doorway, part of his pale face visible over the oxygen mask. Charlie's eyes were closed, but they were clenched tightly shut, as if in pain, and the sight took Don back to a vision of Charlie in the warehouse, crying out in pain, crying for help that Don couldn't give him.

He knew that Julia had been talking to his brother as she cut him, and although he was too far away to hear everything she said, he could hear his brother calling his name, clearly. He knew he would hear that in his dreams, probably for the rest of his life. A sudden thought took him. What on earth had Charlie thought when Don didn't come to help him? Surely Charlie knew that Don didn't come because he couldn't. _You knew I couldn't, right, Buddy?_

His heart in his throat, he approached the bed. Charlie seemed to be breathing heavily under the mask, and Don frowned. Was it from the pain, or was he having a hard time getting air? He looked at the yards of tubing around the bed, his eyes settling on the hose for the mask. It did look a little kinked, like it was twisted a bit, just under Charlie's chin. Don looked back over his shoulder, a little desperately, for the nurse. He would much rather she fix it, but maybe it shouldn't wait – Charlie was breathing so hard….

Tentatively, he reached for it with both hands, with the intention of gently pulling it straight. At that moment, Charlie's eyes opened. They were filled with pain, but as they focused on Don's face, they registered shock, then a look of terror that Don would never forget. Charlie shook his head desperately, emitting a moan of fear, and threw his good arm up, trying to push Don's hands away.

"Charlie, calm down," pleaded Don, trying vainly to grab Charlie's arm, which was waving in the air, dislodging the oxygen monitor on his finger, and setting off a loud beep. He managed to get his hands on the arm, but Charlie began to thrash in earnest now, his whole body twisting, his terrified eyes fixed on Don's. Don shifted his grip and grabbed Charlie's upper arms with both hands, trying to hold him still, and a cry of terror came from under the mask that tore Don's heart.

"What in the hell's going on here?" A voice came from behind him, and Don looked over his shoulder to see Dr. Trenton and his father hurrying into the room; Trenton looking angry, and Alan bewildered.

Don backed away immediately, and Trenton and Alan stepped toward the bed. As they moved between him and Don, Charlie stopped thrashing, but lay with his chest heaving in terror, his frightened eyes still locked on his brother.

"He opened his eyes, and then he just freaked," stammered Don, still looking at Charlie.

Dr. Trenton was checking the vitals on the monitors, and looking at all of the tubing to see if it was still attached. "Sometimes the morphine makes people hallucinate," he said, peering into Charlie's eyes.

"He hasn't _had _any morphine yet," spat Charlene from behind them. She hurried past Don, giving him a suspicious look, and headed for one of the IVs.

Charlie's eyes shifted toward his father, and the fear in them nearly broke Alan's heart. He moved forward as Dr. Trenton stepped away, and took Charlie's good hand gently, so as not to disturb the monitor attached to it. "It's okay son," he said softly. "You're safe now. You're going to be okay."

Charlie's breathing was ragged with pain, and at Alan's words he closed his eyes and shook his head slightly. Two tears streamed out, one from each eye, tracing tracks down the sides of his face. Don stood back, watching, a sick fear growing in his stomach. Had he caused that reaction? Did Charlie blame him for what happened? Suddenly it seemed hard to breathe.

"The morphine will help with the pain," said Dr. Trenton, "and will probably knock him out for awhile."

At the words, Charlie's eyes flew open again, and Alan could hear muffled words under the mask. He bent forward to listen, but between the mask and tube in Charlie's nose, the words came out distorted. The medication was taking effect, and Charlie's eyes flickered and drifted shut. He struggled to open them again, but the effort was too much, and when they closed again, they stayed that way. As they slowly shut, they found his father's, and in them, Alan read a silent plea.

"I should check the incision," said Dr. Trenton quietly. "He was thrashing fairly violently." He spoke quietly to Charlene, asking her to get clean bandages, and she nodded and left the room.

Alan stepped back from the bed, and Dr. Trenton moved forward and gently began to remove the dressings from Charlie's chest and stomach. Alan turned to Don, who looked stricken, still staring at his brother. "I need to know what happened to him, Donnie," said Alan quietly. "All of it. I can't help him if I don't know what happened."

Don closed his eyes. "I can't," he whispered. He opened them again, and Alan saw the horror reflected in them. They shifted to Charlie, and Don's mouth dropped open in shock. From his vantage point in the van, and later next to his brother on the floor, Don had not been able to see the cuts on his brother's chest in any detail. "Oh, my God."

Alan followed his gaze, and his knees went suddenly weak. Charlie's chest and abdomen had been stripped of the dressings, and the stitches were clearly visible. It wasn't the large ugly lateral incision to his abdomen that caused the reaction, however; that Alan had expected. His throat tightened, and he felt suddenly nauseous, as he stared at the word carved into his son's chest, outlined in stitches.

----------------------------------------------------

Megan strode into Cedars-Sinai, her face grim, and approached the information desk. As soon as she had gotten the news that Charlie was out of surgery and stable, she pulled Don aside, and told him that she was going to check on Jessica. He had nodded, almost absently, his mind elsewhere, pain in his eyes, and Megan had left quietly, with the beginnings of a cold anger in her heart.

She flipped open her badge, and looked at woman behind the desk. "I need to know which room Jessica Soames has been taken to."

The woman didn't even need to consult her computer. "So does everyone else," she said. "Psych ward, room 4B. Take the elevators to the fourth floor, go left and follow the signs."

Megan barely managed to murmur her thanks. '_Psych ward,'_ she thought, her stomach tightening. '_She's working on an insanity plea.'_

Moments later, she found Colby and David outside the door to 4B, along with two police officers. Their faces were grim.

Colby spoke, fuming, before Megan could even ask. "She's in there with two doctors and her damn lawyer. She's been screaming and ranting, putting on a show to make them think she's nuts."

David's eyes were dark. "She knows exactly what she's doing. At one point, when no one was looking, she looked at Colby and me and winked."

"And get who her lawyer is – he walked in just before you got here," added Colby. "Miles Stevens."

Megan felt her heart dip. Miles Stevens was one of the best defense attorneys money could buy. And money was one thing that Jessica had – a lot of it. "Well, she isn't going to get away with it," she said tightly. "Not if we can help it." She looked through the small slit of a window cut into the door, and as she did so, Jessica looked toward it. For just a moment, they locked eyes through the window, and Jessica smiled.

------------------------------------------

End Chapter 17


	18. The Truth Will Set You Free

**Title: ****Julia**

**Chapter 18: ****The Truth Will Set You Free**

The last thing Megan had expected to see in the bullpen that morning was Don. "Guys,' she murmured softly, causing both David and Colby to follow her eyes toward the elevator. She placed the mug of coffee that she had just retrieved from the break room on the corner of her desk and stepped forward to meet the Team Leader. She heard the scraping of chairs on the floor behind her, and knew that her other teammates were following.

Don looked terrible. Worse than when Charlie was still missing, and a cold chill settled in Megan's heart. Surely Charlie hadn't died, or taken a turn for the worse? When she had last talked to Don a few hours ago, he had finally received his own discharge papers from the Trauma Center and was on his way to talk with Charlie's surgeon.

Reaching out to touch his arm lightly when they met, Megan spoke gently. "Don? Is everything all right?"

He stopped walking. They stood in the middle of a busy corridor, and it was mid-afternoon. Agents and other personnel streamed around them in the perennial rush of any other day, not even pausing. Don's eyes were bright with moisture, dark with pain, and his voice shook. "I can't see him," he offered, disjointedly. "He won't let me; freaks out every time he sees my face." His eyes flickered briefly to one of the men behind Megan, and then he looked at her, again. "God, I think he saw me in the van. I know he was calling me, and she was talking to him the whole time she…."

David tried to reassure him. "But you got to him as soon as you could, you held him in the warehouse!"

Megan shook her head, reluctant to confirm Don's fears. "He was unconscious by then. He never regained consciousness in the chopper, either."

Colby crossed his arms over his chest to ward off a sudden chill. He stated the obvious. "Who knows what she said? Not just after she got you to the warehouse, but the whole time. She fed him false information and reinforced it with torture."

Don looked at the floor. A giant tear splashed off his boot. "Charlie thinks I was watching and wouldn't help him."

He suddenly swayed dangerously, and both Megan and David laid hands upon him. "Woah, man, you just got out of the hospital yourself," chided David, tugging slightly. "You need to sit down, Don. We'll make sure Charlie knows the truth."

Don allowed himself to be propelled toward his desk and sought out the closest pair of eyes, which happened to be Megan's. "Truth. My Dad. Asking. Can't."

Somehow, she understood the shorthand. She helped David guide him into a chair and knelt in front of him. "I'll take care of it," she promised.

------------------------------------------------

Alan sat next to Charlie's bedside, wearily. Charlie was still in tremendous pain from the surgery and his injuries, and had been receiving hefty doses of morphine that knocked him out for hours on end. When he did come to, he was almost incoherent from the effects of the drug and the morphine, but one thing was clear; he didn't want his brother in the room. After a couple of attempts, Don had given up, retreating to the waiting area, huddled in a chair, steeped in dejection.

Alan had tried to get Don to talk, thinking that if he knew what was behind all of this, he could reason with Charlie, but Don declined. Instead, he sat hunched in his chair, refusing to talk or to answer any questions, and the longer it went on, the more certain Alan became that whatever had happened must be truly horrible; as it seemed to be beyond Don's capability to put words to it. He finally convinced Don to go home and rest, and Don had gone, albeit reluctantly.

It was now morning. Alan sat, waiting for the next moment of consciousness. It had been that way since yesterday; Alan lived for the brief moments; then sat for hours, clinging to that small memory, and waiting for the next one. His mind drifted back to earlier that morning. Charlie had awakened in obvious pain, and apparently nauseated.

Alan had brushed damp curls off a sweaty forehead and soothed him softly. "Hush, sweetheart. You're fine. Daddy's here. Just relax. You're safe now. It's safe now."

Charlie had opened his eyes a slit, but closed them again almost immediately, gagging a little. Alan's voice took on a note of worry. "Are you going to be sick, son? Don't…. Charlie, remember the first time you saw the snow? Our vacation when you were six. Feel the cold of it, Charlie, concentrate on the snowman. You and your mother, and a box of colored chalk for eyes and a nose. Do you hear her laughing, son?"

Charlie had tilted his head a little into his father's hand, eyes still closed. A spasm of pain had crossed his face, and Alan had a feeling that it wasn't entirely physical. As tears coursed down his son's cheeks, he was sure.

---------------------------------------------------

Megan had driven Don to his apartment, but all he had done there was grab a shower and change his clothes. Sleep was an impossibility. He had a visceral need to be at the hospital, for Charlie. He felt it more strongly, even, than he felt the need to be on Julia's firing squad. That bitch didn't matter right now. She would be dealt with.

All that mattered now was seeing his brother, touching his brother, convincing his brother to trust him again. Even if he had to sit unseen in the corridor outside of Charlie's room, Don would do it. He would do anything.

Megan knew he was too exhausted to drive, so she waited for him, and drove him UCLA. They had told the nurse to tell Alan they were there, and now sat in the waiting area; or rather she sat, and Don paced. From time to time he would head down the hallway toward his brother's room, then halfway there, he would wheel around and return to the seating area. Finally he sat, and put his head in his hands.

------------------------------------------------

Jessica opened her eyes as soon as the doctor left the room, and eyed her lawyer. Shaking her head to clear the grogginess, she struggled to sit up a bit. They had given her enough sedative to drug a horse, but her tolerance levels were fortunately high, due to years of recreational drug use.

"I still think you should present yourself as Jennifer Ricestone," Miles said, continuing an earlier conversation.

"No," she snapped back. "I refuse to drag my family name into this. I legally changed my name to Jessica Soames years ago. I told you, I want as little publicity as possible."

The truth was, she couldn't give a damn about her family name. She fully intended to escape this rap, legally or not. When she was safely ensconced on a private island somewhere, the last thing she needed was her face to be recognized worldwide from the scandal. It was too bad in a way; she fully intended to drag the Eppes' brothers names through the muck, and the publicity would have been a nice twist.

She saw the disappointment on Miles' face and smirked. The scumbag lawyer only wanted the publicity to further his own career, and she reveled in his frustration. It didn't matter – she was paying him enough.

"Let's talk strategy," she said, pinching herself to ward off the sedative.

----------------------------------------------

The next dose of morphine had blessedly knocked Charlie out for hours, but he was beginning to stir, and Alan looked around anxiously at the doorway behind him, to see if he could catch a nurse. A muffled sound made him whip his head around toward Charlie again, and he was greeted by the sight of two dark eyes, half-shut, and filled with pain, but directed straight at him.

"Charlie," he said softly, ran a light hand down the side of his son's stubbled cheek. "I'll find the nurse – it must be time for your pain medication." He began to rise, but was stopped as his son gripped his hand with surprising strength.

Charlie was breathing heavily, beginning to gasp as the pain began to take hold again. He managed some words between the gasps, but they were so muffled by the mask that Alan couldn't hear them. He bent closer, and gently pulled the mask aside, just a bit.

"Tried to kill me," Charlie managed before a spasm of pain took his breath. The tube in his nose made it sound as though he had a cold, and his voice was ragged, and Alan had to strain to understand. "Need – talk to Megan."

"I'm not sure how to get hold of her," replied Alan, his brow furrowing. "Why don't I call Donnie, instead?"

"NO!" the word came out with a rush of air, tight with pain, and Charlie gripped his arm tighter, terror in his eyes. He gasped for breath. "Megan."

"I see he's awake. I have his pain medication. Oh, your older son is in the waiting room." Charlene's voice came from behind them, and Charlie's eyes drifted toward her.

"No med-cation," he gasped. "Need to talk."

Charlene looked at him dubiously. "Honey, you can't be going without this right now. You need to rest if you're gonna heal right."

Charlie looked at Alan, desperately. "Please," he whispered.

Alan sighed and shook his head. "I'll try, Charlie, but if she can't get here quickly, you're going to have to get the medication and talk to her later." He gently straightened the oxygen mask and rose, ignoring Charlene's doubtful look. He had no idea why Charlie wanted to talk to Megan so badly, but after what he had been through, Alan wasn't about to deny him whatever he wanted.

He made his way down to the waiting area, intending to get Megan's number from Don, and was rewarded by the sight of Megan herself, sitting in a chair next to Don. They looked up as he approached.

Alan looked at Megan. "Charlie's awake. He's asking for you."

"Me?" asked Don, half rising, a hint of hope in his haggard face.

Alan's heart sank, and he looked at him apologetically. "No, I'm sorry, Donnie – he wants Megan."

Megan frowned and looked at Don uncertainly. "I'm sure you can come with me."

Alan cleared his throat a little nervously. "I – uh – asked him – I think he just wants you, Megan." He felt sadness settle inside him, as he saw Don sink back into his chair, disappointment apparent in his face.

Megan tore her eyes from him and looked at Alan. He could still see the question on her face, but all she said was, "Okay. Will they let me in ICU?"

"I'll take care of that," said Alan.

A moment later, they were at the door of the room. Megan walked in under Charlene's watchful eye, as Alan said, "This is Megan, Charlie's sister."

Charlene raised one expressive, dubious eyebrow, but all she said was, "Make it fast. That boy needs his pain medication."

Megan approached the bedside, trying to compose herself. Charlie was in obvious, severe pain, his chest heaving; his breathing ragged. He paused for a moment, his eyes on Alan, until Alan turned and left the room, and then he looked at Megan, pawing weakly at the oxygen mask until he pushed it aside.

"What is it, Charlie?" she said softly, taking his hand.

"Tried to kill me," he gasped.

Megan frowned. "It's okay, Charlie, we have her in custody."

"Don too," he got out; then grimaced as a wave of pain hit.

Megan's face registered surprise; then she shook her head. "Don, too? You're saying Don tried to kill you?"

Charlie shook his head slightly and his tortured eyes found hers. "Told her to do it," he gasped; his eyes still on Megan's.

Megan stared for a moment; then comprehension began to dawn on her face. "Charlie, did you hear him say that?"

Charlie shut his eyes, his face twisted in pain. The vision of the warehouse, of Don sitting in the van rose in his mind, and a wave of grief swept over him. When he opened his eyes again, there were tears in them. "She told me," he whispered. "I didn't want to believe -," he convulsed suddenly, and a moan escaped him. He dragged in air; then continued. "I called him – but he just s-sat there…" the last words trailed off as tears trailed down his cheeks. He stared at her, his chest heaving, agony on his face.

She felt tears of her own threaten. "Oh, Charlie…" That bitch had poisoned his mind; had let him think this… "Charlie, Don couldn't come to you. He was drugged – she dosed him with ketamine – she _made_ him watch." She searched his eyes, and after a moment of clear doubt, was rewarded with a look of comprehension. The expression of hope that followed it was tempered by pain, but it was there.

Sadness rose in her at the thought of what he had been through, and when she spoke again, her voice shook a little. "Do you understand? He was kidnapped too – to watch it nearly killed him."

Charlie's face suddenly crumpled, and a sob escaped him. He tried twisting his head to the side to hide his face, but could only turn it so far. A huge wave of relief rushed through him, and something snapped; a horrible tension suddenly eased. '_Drugged. Donnie had been drugged – he couldn't come, he couldn't…'_

Tears streamed out of his eyes in spite of the tightly shut lids, and Megan felt her heart swell with grief and pity. "Do you want to see him?" she asked softly.

He swallowed, gasping in pain, but managed to open his eyes and nod. As Megan rose, Charlene spoke from the doorway, the dose of morphine still in her hands. "Now?"

"One more minute, please," said Megan. "He wants to see his brother."

As she approached the waiting area, both Don and Alan looked up. She stood in front of them and spoke to Don softly. "There was a misunderstanding. Jessica -," she paused, almost choking on the name as uncharacteristic rage rose in her. "Jessica made him think you were in on it, Don. She told Charlie that you told her to do it."

"Oh God," breathed Don, his facing paling. "She – he thought that… ," he couldn't get the words out.

"It's okay, I told him about the ketamine – he understands, now," she said. "He wants to see you – you need to hurry – he's in a lot of pain."

He was staggering to his feet, and was headed down the hallway before she could say another word. She looked at Alan, and saw confusion and misery on his face.

He looked up at her. "I need someone to tell me what happened to them," he said, a plea in his eyes. "Don won't talk to me, and Charlie can't. I know that you know. Please."

She stared at him for a few seconds, then sighed and sat down next to him, and looked him directly in the eye. "It's bad, Alan. Are you sure?"

"Yes," he said. The word came out raspy with fear, but he looked back steadily.

She nodded, and began to talk.

---------------------------------------------------

Don approached the doorway to Charlie's room and paused. Charlene was sitting beside his brother, stroking his arm, humming what sounded like an old spiritual. Charlie's chest was rising and falling, his eyes closed tightly, his breaths deep and ragged with pain, and it appeared that he was just barely holding on. Her rich voice floated out, soothing and melodic, and as Don stepped in he was hesitant, loath to stop the sound.

She rose as he approached, vacating the chair for him. "Please, don't be too long," she said, her eyes full of meaning.

Don nodded, and as he sank into the chair, Charlie's eyes opened. For a moment they stared at each other, wordless; then Don spoke, his voice a whisper. "I'm so sorry, Charlie. I'm so sorry."

Charlie looked back, his eyes filled with tears. "Not your fault." The voice was strained with pain and muffled by the mask, but Don could make it out.

Don shook his head, nearly overwhelmed by how quickly Charlie was ready to forgive him. He stood, suddenly, and leaned over Charlie, so close, their faces nearly touched. "It's going to be okay, buddy," he said softly, his heart filled with grief, tears welling in his own eyes. "We're going to get through this." He rested a hand gently on the side of Charlie's face, and Charlie looked back up at him, his eyes filled with pain.

"Is it time?" asked Charlene softly, and Charlie nodded; his eyes still on Don. Charlene added the medication to the IV, and as it took hold, Charlie's eyes began to drift shut, and the pain began to swirl away. The last thing he remembered was light, soothing pressure, as his brother rested his forehead gently against his.

--------------------------------------------

Several moments later, Don rose from his sleeping brother's side. He touched Charlie's hand, gently; then turned toward the door. Now that he was here, he hated to leave, even for the brief minutes it would take to tell his father he could come back in. As he made his way toward the waiting area, he stopped suddenly, stricken by the sight.

Alan was leaning heavily against Megan, who cradled and rocked him like a mother with an infant, and Alan's sobs could be clearly heard. Hospital personnel would glance at them with sympathy as they passed, and visitors would pointedly look in another direction entirely. Each cry that was ripped out of his father's heart, landed with unerring precision in Don's own.

He stood in the middle of the hallway, staring helplessly, as new pain rose inside him at his father's grief. He shut his eyes, each agonized cry hitting him like a blow, driving away reality, until he was conscious of nothing else.

-------------------------------------------------

End Chapter 18


	19. Long and Lonely Road

**Title: ****Julia**

**Chapter 19: ****Long and Lonely Road**

Charlie stared blankly at the wall in front of him. Three days had gone by, three days of physical healing. He had been transferred to a regular room, and this morning the NG tube had been removed. Without it, and the oxygen mask to hide behind, he felt strangely exposed.

Along with the healing had come changes in his pain medication. The lighter dosages left him more awake, more alert. More time to think about what had happened. As consciousness returned, the memories had come back in pieces. He remembered nothing of the first rapes; the J-rock had rendered him semi-conscious at best. The last one, though, was a different story. The pain of the torture and the brutal assault had kept him awake through parts of it, and it was those memories that assaulted him now; brief but brutally clear snatches of terror, pain, and humiliation.

Worst of all was the knowledge that even in that painful, degrading situation, he had responded to her, physically. The knowledge clung to him like filth, like a film of dirt that couldn't be washed away. The awareness of it was always there, along with the visions, the memories of the rape. It rendered him silent, uncommunicative, brooding in his cocoon of pain, in spite of his father's and brother's best efforts to draw him out. He sat there, hour after hour, in a sort of self-imposed shell-shock, knowing that he deserved the pain, the suffering. He was sick. He was dirty.

Charlene swished in on rubber soles. "How's my baby today?" Her rich voice was cheerful. "We got that nasty tube out, and do you know, honey, we're going to celebrate." She set down a basin, a hand mirror, shaving cream and a razor. "We're going to get you all cleaned up."

Charlie's eyes flickered briefly to her, then to his father. Alan looked exhausted, heartworn. It was his fault, Charlie knew. He had gone and fallen in love with someone sick and twisted, because he was sick too. He had brought this down on his father; the pain, the humiliation. Charlie could only imagine the disgust that his father must feel. It had to rival the disgust that he felt for himself.

Alan cleared his throat. "That sounds wonderful," he said, his voice forced. "I'm sure Charlie's looking forward to that – right, son?"

Charlie nodded; his expression noncommittal. Alan stared at him a moment, sadly. "I think I'll go get a coffee, Charlie. You can surprise me when I get back." Fear flickered across Charlie's face, and Alan quickly reassured him. "Charlene won't leave before I get back, son. I'll come right back."

Charlene nodded, murmured, "Of course, sugar," and moved forward. She adjusted the bed, tilting the back up so that Charlie was nearly in a sitting position. She had a tendency to mother her patients, and she felt oddly protective of this one; this thin young man with his pain-filled dark eyes. He seemed fragile, physically and mentally. "Lean your head back, honey, and just relax."

Charlie closed his eyes and complied. At her touch, he gripped his gown tightly, twisting it with his fingers under the sheets, trying to calm a surge of panic, as a vivid memory came surging back. He was helpless in one of her torture devices, as Julia stroked his cheek.

Charlene noted the tension, the quickened breathing, and began to hum. The rich sounds of an old gospel hymn filled the room, and gradually her patient relaxed his body, but a furrow remained in his brow, his face drawn in pain. She worked quickly, gently, her voice thrumming with the cadences of the music, the emotion in it clearly evident, even without words. He felt water on his face, then a towel. "There now," she said, and he opened his eyes.

She handed him the mirror. "Take a look. Aren't you the handsome one?"

He took the mirror with a slightly unsteady hand and regarded himself emotionlessly. It was a familiar face, thinner and paler than he remembered; but the eyes were not the same. They looked back at him, two dark pools, with remembrances of horror and shame simmering under the surface. He somehow dredged up some manners. "Thank you," he said quietly. "It feels much better."

She beamed at the response. Six consecutive words might be a record, so far, with this one. "Looks better too, honey. You were getting a little scruffy there." Her face changed, and she looked at his chest in dismay. "Oh, I've gone and got you wet, and I was trying to be careful." She pulled at the top of the gown gently and clucked in mild annoyance. "I've gotten your dressings wet. We'll need to change those."

He lowered the mirror and lay back, and she pulled carefully at the adhesive, and gently stripped off the dressings. "Can't get those stitches wet. You just sit there, now, and I'll be right back." She turned and headed out of the room, swiftly, pushing her ample frame almost beyond its limits. She knew the young man hated to be alone, even for a few moments, and she had promised his father that she would stay until he got back.

Charlie lay there for a moment, breathing as deeply as he could and willing himself to be calm, just for one second at a time. With an effort, he pushed himself away from the back of the bed, wincing at the pain in his incision. The talk of the cuts on his chest brought back the ugly memory of Julia, bending over him, hate and ugly fascination in her eyes, as she held him down, and bore down with the knife. He swallowed and lifted the mirror again, and pulled at the neckline of his gown, trying to angle it toward his chest. He looked at the reflection in surprise as he saw that the cuts appeared to be letters, and his brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to make them out, backwards in the mirror.

Alan strode back toward the room, along with Don, who he had run into on the elevator up. "Charlie was getting a shave," said Alan, and his voice actually took on a bit of cheerfulness. "That ought to make him feel better – a little more normal."

Don said nothing. He hoped his father was right, but he knew it would take a lot more than a shave to make a dent in his brother's state of mind.

They passed Charlene in the hall. "Perfect timing," she smiled. "I just spilled a little water and need to get some fresh bandages. I'll be right back." She beamed at Alan. "He was all right with my leaving, but it's good that you're here, now. Go on in. He looks like a new man."

Alan quickened his step, but as he reached the doorway he stopped so suddenly that Don almost ran into the back of him. He peered over his father's shoulder, to see Charlie holding a hand mirror that was trained at his chest, his mouth open in shock.

"Oh, Charlie," whispered Alan.

The mirror found its way to the bed in a suddenly nerveless hand, and Charlie's shoulders slumped. He closed his eyes as if in pain, and his head dropped, hanging in shame, in defeat.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Charlie refused to talk about it. He simply lay back in the bed, groaning slightly at the effort, and squeezed his eyes shut. He kept them shut throughout the redressing of his wounds, and after a while, he didn't even hear his father talking to him anymore. He could only hear her voice in his head; and he could only feel in his heart the truth of the word she had chosen to carve. From that point on, Charlie became even more withdrawn and silent than he had already been, and it broke Alan's and Don's hearts. His depression slowed his physical recovery, and it was twelve long days before he was finally released from the hospital.

The day before Charlie came home, an antsy Don spent getting things ready at the Craftsman. It was still difficult for him to let his brother out of his sight for any length of time – but it was becoming just as difficult to be with him, in a different way. He had taken a month's leave of absence from the Bureau, with Merrick's full blessing, and had been staying at the house with his father. He planned to continue staying there, indefinitely. He had moved most of his clothes back from his apartment.

He was at the market by 5 a.m., with his father's carefully scribed list, and had the refrigerator stocked with Ensure nutritional drinks, yogurt and cottage cheese by 7. Cleaning Charlie's room proved to be a more daunting task, and he was glad it was Sunday; Larry had promised to be there by 9 to help. Don didn't want to screw up some insane system his brother might have…and if anyone was familiar with the way Charlie's mind worked, it was Larry. By noon the two of them were working on the third load of laundry. They had changed the bed, added a hastily-assembled set of bookshelves and had begun to clear a path. Every time Don went downstairs to move clothes to the dryer and add more to the washer, he would stop in the kitchen and call his brother at the hospital.

He couldn't believe all the physical therapy Charlie endured in any one day, and he couldn't decide what he thought about Charlie's adamant refusal to talk to the psychiatrists; or anyone else, for that matter. Don had worked with one or two victims of violent crime, in his time. He knew that Charlie should be talking to someone, and as far as he knew, he wasn't. Not him, and not their father. He had requested a limitation on his visitors at the hospital, claiming he was too tired to deal with them. Don knew that was probably true -- and after spending the day with Larry, he was reminded how truly exhausting the man could be – but it still concerned him.

Charlie was still clearly terrified. He had not spent a night alone in the hospital. Don and Alan took turns staying with him. Don knew for a fact that every night he had dozed in the chair next to the bed, Charlie had nearly been propelled out of it by at least one nightmare. In the daytime, he was almost completely incapable of separation from his family. One of them always accompanied him to his therapy sessions. Once, when Don had gone to the cafeteria to get some lunch for himself and his father, and Charlie was napping, Alan had gone to the bathroom. When he emerged, his youngest son was sitting on the floor in the farthest corner of the room, clutching a pillow to chest and crying. He was inconsolable for hours.

After a few days, Don had brought his laptop to the hospital, but for the most part Charlie ignored it. And while he wanted them near at all times, he didn't engage in any real conversations with them. He would lie in bed or sit in the chair and look out his hospital room window, occasionally sighing. Sometimes, a solitary tear would streak down his face. He seldom even mustered the energy to brush it away. Don or Alan would do it for him.

Today, listening to the weariness in Charlie's voice whenever he got him on the phone, Don determined that 12 days was enough. When Charlie got home, and settled, he would offer to go with him to Bradford. Don hadn't even seen the man himself, yet, since their warehouse ordeal. He had cancelled his appointment to be with Charlie at the hospital. It surprised him sometimes, the yearning he felt to talk to the doctor. He would tell himself he could not believe he had become dependent upon a shrink – then answer himself that he should probably discuss that with Bradford. Incredible.

Maybe he would ask Alan to go with them.

Although he was always chipper and positive with both of his sons, Don wasn't blind. He saw his father gazing out the same window Charlie looked out, and he saw the devastation that crept into his face while he did.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

"Two weeks," repeated Miles Stevens in exasperation. "I remind you that the competency hearing is in two weeks, Jennifer. You need to take this time of preparation seriously!"

She glared at him. "I told you never to call me that. My name is Jessica. And don't worry about the competency hearing" – she waved a hand in the air casually – "I've got that under control. I want to know if you've filed the name change petition, yet."

Stevens gaped at his client. Perhaps she really _was_ insane. "Surely you weren't serious about that."

She jumped up and began to pace the room like a caged animal. "Of course I was serious," she spat. "Don't forget who pays your high-priced bill, you miserable piece of shit. File the name-change petition. One way or the other, I'll be Jessica Eppes before this is over."

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Don was a little disappointed – and a little wary – at Charlie's reaction.

His brother leaned tiredly against the door frame and regarded his beautiful room with the dull eyes that had replaced his real ones. The ones that used to be excited, interested, vibrant, expressive. "Thank-you," he murmured quietly, dragging Don out of his thoughts. "I appreciate the effort."

Don's own eyes passed briefly over Alan's, who stood slightly behind Charlie, and then over the room. Had he done something un-fixable, here, even with Larry helping? _"I appreciate the effort?" _Hell, why didn't Charlie just remark on the unseasonable rain? "Larry said he kept everything organized the way you had it, we just moved it to the new bookshelves…." He stopped talking, feeling at once like a fool and helpless.

Charlie started, a little wobbly, for the bed. "I'm sure it's fine," he said, his voice flat. "I'm a little tired."

"Of course, son," soothed Alan from the door. "What with the hospital sneaking in that last PT this morning, and then the trip home, I'm not surprised. Just let me run downstairs and get some yogurt, first. It's been a few hours since you had anything to eat." As he spoke, Alan noticed that the afghan Margaret had knit Charlie during their time together at Princeton was missing from the end of his bed. "Donnie, where's your mother's blanket?"

Don started, stared at the bed and then headed for the door. "Dryer," he said. "I knew I forgot something."

Charlie's eyes finally showed some emotion as both his father and brother prepared to leave the room. Dark fear blazed in them, and he froze in the middle of the room. "Don't," he begged, and that one word was all it took.

Don looked at him with all the love and heartbreak he felt leeching into his own eyes. "I won't, Buddy," he assured him. "I'm not going anywhere. Dad will bring it up when he brings up the yogurt." He approached Charlie stealthily, as if he were a wounded, wild animal, and gently started guiding him to the bed again. "It's all right," he repeated. "I'm not going anywhere."

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End Chapter 19


	20. Hiding in Plain Sight

T**itle: ****Julia**

**Chapter 20: ****Hiding in Plain Sight**

Millie and Larry sat at the Eppes kitchen table and stared at each other for a moment before their gazes broke. Larry's hand crept to his mouth and he moved his eyes to the table. "Oh, dear. Oh. Poor Charles."

Millie had moved her eyes to Alan, who leaned against the stove. She carefully schooled her voice to omit horror, and smiled reassuringly so that her face would leak no resentment at just being told the truth now. "Well. Now that I understand, of course I'll make sure Charlie's classes are covered for the remainder of the semester. And of course I won't approach him about teaching any courses this summer."

Alan shifted, feeling guilty about his long silence anyway. "It's not that we didn't want to tell the two of you, I hope you believe that..."

Megan spoke up from her place at the table. "Absolutely." She looked specifically at Larry. "You don't know how hard it's been, watching you worry about Charlie's 'accident'. I'm so pleased he agreed that you two should know the truth. He and Don have to testify next week at the competency hearing, and they'll both need all the support they can get."

Larry moved his hand to tug at his ear and smiled at her shyly. "Of course we understand. What a terrible, terrible ordeal -- for both of them. This certainly sheds some light on Charles' behavior in the hospital, and since he's come home."

Millie was frowning. "Surely there's no real chance of this woman convincing a judge she didn't know what she was doing. You said she planned it for months!" She started to look angry. "The visciousness of her attack cannot go unpunished."

"No," murmured Larry in agreement, looking suddenly as if he wanted to cry. "Besides your co-workers -- including the lovely Liz -- Millie and I are the only ones to know the truth?"

Megan nodded glumly. "Records of this nature are always sealed, so the press won't get their hands on it." Her voice grew determined. "Not if any of us has anything to say about it, anyway."

Larry let go of his ear and reached to lightly touch her hand. "How difficult this must have been, my dear..."

Alan blinked back his own tears and locked eyes briefly with Millie before he shifted from his spot. "We should move to the living room. Don will be bringing Charlie downstairs soon."

Millie frowned again. "You're sure it won't be too much for him? All of us here at once?"

Alan sighed, dejected. "I don't know. Don had an appointment to see Dr. Bradford a few days ago, and tried to get Charlie to go with him. It was the first time he's been alone willingly since he was rescued -- he locked himself in the bathroom for two hours. Don ended up missing the appointment. I hate to push him; but like Megan said, he's going to have to face large crowds of people next week when he goes to that hearing. And her. My God, I don't know how he's going to do that. It's a closed hearing, I can't even go in with him!"

Larry's hand crept back toward his mouth and he ended the conversation where it had begun. "Oh, dear," he murmured. "Poor Charles."

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Don helped his brother struggle into a clean t-shirt, then stood in the open doorway of the bathroom, a little amused watching Charlie in a losing battle with hair that was at its best, unruly. It was such a relief, to observe him being concerned with something _normal_, again. Don reveled in it, and allowed himself a small joke. "Chuck. It's Larry. He's gone _camping_ with you; seen you first thing in the morning. I hardly think he's going to be offended by The Hair That Time Forgot."

Charlie dropped his hand from his head, and Don could have kicked himself when he saw that it was shaking. He was about to apologize all over himself when Charlie shocked the hell out of him by agreeing. "True. But when we're camping, I never subject him to my hair until after he's had some coffee. Do you think Dad made coffee?"

A slow grin spread over Don's face and reached his eyes, and it was all he could do to stop himself from shouting. A funny. Charlie made a funny. God in Heaven, Charlie cared about his hair. "Come on," he finally sputtered. "You're keeping your guests waiting."

The older Eppes almost skipped down the hall, leading the way, and Charlie didn't miss the spring in his step. He felt guilty, following more slowly behind. It had been so easy to make Don happy. He was making them both as miserable as he was, and he hated himself for it.

He grabbed the banister and started down the stairs, and hated himself for breathing.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

The visit had been brief.

The small interlude in the bathroom had completely exhausted Charlie; dredging up a little fake personality was a tiring thing. He was unable to do it again – not even for Larry, his best friend. Simple politeness and feigned interest in the things of campus life proved to be the most physically trying thing he'd done since his first day of therapy in the hospital. Within minutes, the strain began to show on his face.

Millie shot a look at Alan and then smiled broadly at Charlie. "We should be leaving. Now that you're ready for company, we'll come back often, I'm sure, and we don't want to tire you out the first time!" She stood rather noisily from her position at the dining room table, where they had all gathered with the coffee that Alan had indeed provided. "Now, don't you worry about your classes. There are only a few weeks left in the semester anyway. I can cover them myself for that long. And of course you'll take the summer to recuperate fully; I won't schedule you for either summer session."

Charlie murmured his thanks, and his heart sank just a little bit further. Of course she didn't want a slut like him on campus, influencing all those young minds. By fall she would come up with another excuse, and he would probably never teach again. A shadow crossed his face. He should have known.

Millie was right.

He didn't deserve to be a teacher anymore.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………...

Don wouldn't have believed it possible, especially after the brief shining light in the bathroom, but as the hearing grew closer, Charlie grew even less communicative. Don grew more worried, again. Two days before the hearing, he had finally stolen some time to see Bradford. That's what it felt like to him – stolen time – time that really belonged to someone else. He had put Charlie in this place, and the very least he could do was stay with him in the darkness. The doctor had convinced him that it was in Charlie's best interests for Don to pursue help. Only by healing himself could he truly be free to help his brother. Bradford had even cancelled all his afternoon appointments, and met with Don for almost three hours. After, he still took his time getting home. For one thing, it was obvious even to him that he had been through a traumatic experience, and he needed to pull himself together before he saw Charlie. Plus, he knew Larry was coming by that afternoon. Between him and Alan, he kept telling himself, Charlie would be fine. Finally, he had left Bradford's office knowing that he couldn't put it off any longer. He had to tell Charlie everything, before he heard it in the courtroom.

Charlie was sleeping when Don finally got to the Craftsman. He still didn't want to stay in his room by himself, even for a nap, but he was loath to be an even bigger burden to his family. A few nights after he had come home from the hospital, he managed to live through a compromise. When he was in his room, the door was always open; as well as his father's, and brother's, doors. During daytime naps, he slept on the couch, the physical discomfort paling in comparison to the idea of going upstairs alone.

He awoke early that evening to spy Don in his father's recliner. He glanced around, worried. "Where's Dad?", he rasped, wincing as he tried to push himself up.

Like a shot Don was out of the chair and helping him. "Just after groceries," he assured, settling beside Charlie on the couch when his brother had achieved horizontal status. He perched on the edge of the cushion. "Do you need anything? Water? How long since you ate?"

Charlie turned bleary and confused eyes on him. "Um…I don't really know what time it is…."

Don swore softly and jumped up again. He hurried into the kitchen, making sure the swinging door was always open, and then hurried back with one of Charlie's nutritional drinks. He thrust it at him as he sat again, nervously. "Better have something."

Charlie obediently removed the cap from the small plastic bottle, after a decent shake, and tipped it for a delicate taste. He wiped his mouth when he was finished, his hand shaking. Don was making him nervous. He knew his brother had been gone all afternoon, at his psychiatrist's, and that made him nervous as well. "What's wrong?", he asked, his voice small and troubled. "Are you all right?"

Don sighed, blinked rapidly and ran his hand through his hair in the familiar gesture of frustration. "Charlie…Buddy. You need to hear something now, before…."

Charlie's trembling increased, and he carefully set the bottle on the small end table next to the couch before he spilled it. "What?", he whispered. Don's own hand brushed across his face, and Charlie was horrified to see that he was crying. "Oh, God, what?", he repeated.

Don found he couldn't look at him, and studied their shoes, instead. "It's my fault," he finally choked out, and a damn burst. Charlie sat in stunned silence as the story of Jessica Soames spilled out of Don's mouth.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Liz had her arm around his waist as they stood in the dark listening to the ripples of water in the koi pond, and she squeezed. A little afraid to do it, lest it set him off again, she leaned her head into Don's broad bicep. "You had to tell him," she confirmed. "Even Dr. Bradford said so. You couldn't let him hear all that for the first time in court."

Don leaned his own head down until it rested on hers. "I know," he admitted. "But I still hate this. All of this. All of this."

She murmured comfortingly into his t-shirt. "You should. You love him…how could you not?"

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Charlie stood in front of the bookshelf in the solarium. His father was thrilled. Not only was it the first time since the bathroom incident that he had allowed himself to be this far away from them, it also indicated that Charlie was taking an interest in something. Alan didn't care if it was the latest best seller, or a book on "P vs. NP", at this point.

He would have been much less happy, if he knew that as Charlie stared in the general direction of the books, it was Julia's face that he saw. Don's revelation had made him even more certain of his own depravity, because he knew. He remembered their pre-warehouse weeks, and he knew. That woman - before she became the monster in the warehouse? His Julia?

Charlie still loved her.

End Chapter 20


	21. Did You Miss Me?

**Julia**

**Chapter 21: ****Did You Miss Me?**

Don sat in the small office at the courthouse and glanced at his brother yet again, trying to gauge his emotional state. He glanced up, and met Megan's sympathetic eyes. The prosecutor, Pete Jarrell, had called them in for a quick meeting prior to entering the courtroom. That morning, they had managed to get a dress shirt on Charlie by slitting the sleeve that went over his cast. He had his good arm in his suit jacket, and the other side of the jacket was draped over his shoulder and his sling. Not that it mattered; it didn't fit him very well anyway. Don hadn't realized how thin Charlie had gotten until he had helped Alan dress him that morning; his brother's bones protruded from his emaciated frame, and his clothes hung on him. The surgeon had told them that Charlie would drop some weight, but it looked too drastic, to Don.

Now Charlie sat quietly, drowning in his oversized suit, his thin shoulders set; his dark eyes on the prosecutor. Don wrenched his eyes away as Jarrell began to speak.

"I wanted to run over a few things before we go in," Jarrell began. "She's being charged with multiple counts; assault and kidnapping of a federal agent, second degree murder of Jerry Hinkman, the truck driver; and assault, kidnapping, rape and attempted murder of Dr. Eppes."

Don noticed that Charlie blinked at the mention of his name, but he said nothing. It wasn't surprising. His brother wasn't talking much these days. Don had resorted to constantly watching him to try figure out what he was thinking. Most of the time, he had no clue.

Jarrell continued. "The defense is going to attempt to persuade the judge that she is incompetent to stand trial. If they fail, and this goes to trial, Stevens will continue that line; and use insanity as her defense. Be prepared for quite the acting job on her part, and some grandstanding from the defense attorney."

"In our favor are the facts in the case – and the obvious premeditation on her part. The depositions you each made in my office last week have been accepted as sworn testimony, and already reviewed. Plus, there is the physical evidence, especially the cell phones. The judge has already observed the video material on them." At that, Charlie shifted in his seat slightly and hung his head, his eyes now trained on the floor. Don eyed him anxiously as Jarrell went on.

"There is something that you are unaware of. Jessica petitioned for a name change, and Stevens managed to railroad it through before the hearing. She is now legally known as Jessica Eppes."

"What!" Don's eyes shot from Charlie to Jarrell, his face incredulous. "What in the hell is that about?" He looked back at Charlie nervously, who looked stricken, and then glanced at Megan, who was staring at Jarrell in disbelief.

Jarrell paused, and looked back at them. "I'm not sure what it means, but I'm sure it fits into their defense argument. I wanted to tell you in private, so you weren't shocked in the hearing." His eyes rested on Charlie. "You need to be prepared. This could get very ugly. Miles Stevens does not pull punches; he will do anything to gain his objective." He rose from his desk. "We need to get in there. Dr. Eppes, I would like to tell you again that you do not need to be present. You are welcome to wait here if you wish."

Charlie shook his head. "That's okay," he said quietly, and Jarrell breathed a secret sigh of relief. The truth was that the man's appearance could work for them as a sympathy factor; his quiet sadness and frailness were a testament to the devastating ordeal that he had been through. The older brother, however, was another story; he could see tension and anger simmering under the surface, and he could only hope that Agent Eppes would keep himself in check. He eyed Agent Reeves with approval; she would be a welcome presence if the judge had questions.

Charlie could feel his heart beating faster as they walked down the hallway, and by the time they reached the courtroom door, it was hammering painfully in his chest. She was in there, just on the other side of the door. It swung open and they moved in, seemingly in slow motion.

He saw her instantly, her red hair pulled back in a simple low ponytail, wearing a demure dress with a tiny floral print. Her gaze was wandering around the courtroom haphazardly, her eyes glazed, and she rocked a little in the chair. Her eyes eventually traveled their direction, and as they connected with Charlie's he felt a painful jolt run through him. A slight smile crossed her lips; then she resumed her rocking with a dreamy disconnected expression.

"Charlie," whispered Don, and Charlie realized that he had stopped dead, and there were people staring at him. On knees suddenly turned watery, he followed Jarrell, and mechanically took a seat in the row behind him, next to a teary-eyed woman who appeared to be Hinkman's widow. He could feel Don sliding into the seat next to him, and then the comforting pressure of Don's hand on his arm. Jessica was sitting just across from them now, and Charlie's eyes wandered toward her again, in spite of himself.

Jessica hummed lightly as she rocked. That wasn't part of the crazy act; she was actually in a good mood. Her wandering eyes kept finding Charlie's; she couldn't keep them away, because every time they connected, Charlie tensed, as if he were receiving a blow. She had been surprised when she heard he had survived; and she certainly hadn't thought she would ever get a chance to torture him again – especially in front of Don. This was an unexpected, enjoyable surprise, and she couldn't get enough of it. Her eyes found him again, then again, delivering an intangible assault, and she drank in his torment, feeding on it like a parasite.

The judge entered and the bailiff asked the court occupants to rise. Jessica ignored him and sat rocking, until Miles pulled her gently to her feet. She could feel the judge's eyes on her, and fought the urge to look back, instead studying the ceiling, and kept her eyes fixed there as they sat again. As soon as they were settled, she let her eyes roam over the judge, a sour-faced middle aged woman, and then again to Charlie. He looked thin and pale, his eyes dark with pain. She imagined herself sucking the life out of him, like a spider. Her eyes flickered to Don, who was looking at her with barely disguised fury, and she smiled dreamily. Who would have thought that being on trial would be so much fun?

Miles Stevens observed Judge Wilson with a satisfied smile. They couldn't have drawn a better judge in his opinion; she was a bleeding heart liberal who consistently let her emotional brand of politics get in the way of her judgments. Not to mention the fact that she melted like butter every time he spoke to her in private. He had a daunting task in front of him, to be sure, especially when it came to explaining the video evidence, but he had a plan for that.

Judge Wilson banged her gavel, unnecessarily. "This hearing is now in session," she announced, her gaze sweeping the courtroom. It rested on Jessica, and then on the Eppes brothers, for a brief moment. "This is a pre-trial hearing for the purpose of determining the competency of the defendant to stand trial, in response to a motion filed by the defense." She looked at Jarrell. "The prosecution will present the first arguments."

Jarrell rose, and launched into his presentation, smoothly. He covered all of the evidence, including the finding of J-rock and the tub of ketamine gel in the van, along with Charlie's blood. He covered the evidence found in the warehouse, the syringes, the torture devices, and the knife. He went over the cell phone evidence, emphasizing the thought that went into their delivery, and reminding the judge of the horrific content on them, which she had already witnessed. He produced the written statements from Jan Hinkman, the widow, on her last conversation with her husband, from other truck drivers at the scene, and lengthy depositions from Don and Charlie. Finally, he produced evidence gathered by the hospital, including blood work from both of the brothers showing presence of the chemicals in their system, and forensic evidence of the rapes.

Through it all, Don kept his eyes on his brother. Charlie sat quietly, but the tension in his body made it apparent that he was maintaining control only with difficulty. As Jarrell talked through Charlie's statement, and then moved on to the rape evidence, Don could see his brother's chest heaving with suppressed emotion.

Charlie glanced up at that point, and Don saw his eyes connect with Jessica's. All eyes were on Jarrell, who was speaking, and Jessica took advantage of it; Don saw her smile wickedly, and run a tongue over her lower lip. Charlie flinched visibly and tore his eyes away, swaying in his chair. Don grabbed his arm to steady him, and kept it there as Jarrell concluded his presentation with arguments on the premeditation of the acts, all stemming from the issuance of the restraining order months ago.

Miles Stevens began his arguments quietly, focusing on his client's obviously tenuous grasp on reality. Jessica played it to the hilt, rocking, her eyes traversing the room, smiling innocently, vacantly at the judge. He produced statements and examinations from no less than five physicians; all maintaining that she was mentally compromised. As the judge examined them, he went in for the kill. "The fact of the matter is, your honor," he said, pacing in the aisle, his voice rising, "we do not deny Jessica's participation in these events. What we do deny is that she was fully cognitive of what she was doing, especially since she was coerced into it by the Eppes brothers themselves." Don gripped the arms of his chair, trying to keep himself from flying out of it like a projectile. Charlie paled, and stared in shock.

"These two men took advantage of this poor, unstable woman, pulling her into their sick games. Yes, you saw the videos. You saw the shot of Jessica smiling and waving into the camera, and even without the sound, you saw her say, 'Hi, Don.' She thought it was just a game. The fact is he is a sick voyeur, and his younger brother is even more perverted – a masochist that gets off on bondage -- it was obvious on the video that he responded physically to her attention…."

Don heard the breath leave Charlie in a rush, and he jumped to his feet in rage, screaming at the judge. "You saw what was on those videos! How can you think that anyone would enjoy that -- she almost killed him, for God's sake…" he broke off, as Jarrell grabbed his arm and tried to pull him down.

"Order!" shouted Wilson, "silence yourself, or I will find you in contempt." It appeared that she already had; she eyed both Don and Charlie with obvious disgust.

Don sat down, trembling with anger, his eyes still fixed on Stevens, who smiled smugly, then wiped it off and assumed a distraught expression as he faced the judge. He stepped forward and laid some papers in front of her. Don snuck a look at Charlie; his brother's head was bowed, and he was staring at the floor, pain and resignation on his face. His brother was being violated again, thought Don sadly, this time verbally, in public.

"These are technical documents, your honor," said Stevens. "The content is not important, other than you should know that they are patent disclosures for a way of introducing chemicals through gel. If you note the credits at the end, you will see Dr. Eppes' name. He participated in the development of the gel that Jessica used. Both of the Eppes brothers have been involved in this for months, and used her for their own twisted ends."

Charlie's head had come up; he looked ill, and Jarrell turned in his chair, with a hiss of a whisper. "Are those legitimate?"

"I calculated absorption rates for several chemicals for a researcher – it was supposed to be used for medical purposes…" Charlie trailed off, desperation on his face.

Jarrell looked furious. "You need to clue me in on stuff like that," he hissed, and Charlie looked at Don miserably.

Stevens was still talking. "The extent of how much my client looked up to these men is evident. She changed her own name to theirs. Not exactly rational, either, but it shows to what lengths this poor girl would go just to please them." Jessica smiled at the judge vacuously, as if on cue. "This concludes my arguments, your honor. I believe that you cannot find otherwise than that my client was mentally incapable, more than that, she was coerced, and therefore not responsible for her actions."

Judge Wilson addressed the courtroom. "I will call a brief recess while I consider the arguments. All interested parties should remain in the courtroom." The bailiff asked for the occupants of the room to rise, and as Charlie stood, dizziness engulfed him. He felt a strong hand grab his arm, and by the time his vision cleared, the judge had left the room.

"I need air," he said weakly. The truth was, he couldn't stand to hear the judge's decision, either way. If she found in their favor, it meant the trial loomed ahead, and after today, the thought of more of the same seemed unbearable. If she found in Jessica's favor, it confirmed Charlie's feelings about himself – he was sick, and weak, and dirty – this was somehow his fault; and the judge had seen through him, and agreed.

Don looked at him, concerned. "Charlie, if you leave, you might not get back inside in time for the decision."

"I don't care," Charlie whispered; his eyes on the floor.

Don looked at Jarrell, who shook his head. "If you leave, and they start again, I can't guarantee they will let you back in."

"I'll go with him," said Megan quietly. She desperately wanted to stay for the judge's decision, but it was more important that Don be there. She looked encouragingly at Charlie. "Come on. We'll wait for them outside."

They walked out slowly, Megan holding Charlie's arm to steady him. Charlie was shaking, and Megan looked at him a bit anxiously. '_He probably shouldn't have come,' _she thought. It was too much – physically and emotionally. There was a bench in the hallway, and Megan guided Charlie to it. "Rest for a second, and we'll walk down to the office," she said gently.

Charlie shook his head. He was breathing heavily, but he was starting to recover. "I'll be okay. I'll just wait here." His face was downcast, and he avoided Megan's eyes.

"Okay," agreed Megan, quietly. She sank onto the bench next to him.

Charlie spoke suddenly, his eyes still on the floor. "Seeing her today, I don't know how she fooled me so – completely." He apparently didn't expect a response, because he sat up suddenly and propped his arm on the side rail of the bench, and turned his face that direction, covering it with his hand.

He sat that way in silence for a long moment, and Megan decided that he needed a bit of privacy. "I'm going to walk down to the water cooler," she said softly. "I'll be right back." The water cooler was at the far end of the hall. She could get them each a cup of water, and give Charlie a little time to himself – but still be in his line of sight.

------------------------------------------------

Back in the courtroom, Don set his jaw and went to back to his seat, avoiding Jessica's glance. The judge had to see through that act, he thought grimly. The evidence was overwhelming that a cunning mind had been behind all of it. She had to decide in their favor. He couldn't bear the thought that his brother had gone through all of that - hell, he was still going through it - and that Jessica might go unpunished.

They rose as the judge returned, and Wilson sat and banged her gavel. "I have come to a decision. I agree with the defense; the defendant is currently incompetent to stand trial." Jarrell's shoulders slumped, and he shook his head. Don stared, shocked, in disbelief, and Mrs. Hinkman made a soft sound of distress. The judge continued. "This does not mean that there will not be a trial. The date is merely postponed, until such a time as the defendant is mentally fit. She will be put into the care of a guardian, and placed in a suitable mental facility. She will undergo periodic psychiatric evaluations to evaluate her mental fitness. I would ask that she now be escorted from the courtroom. This hearing is adjourned."

Stevens took Jessica's arm and led her through the court. She smiled and her eyes roved as she walked, playing the part for the remaining occupants of the court as she was escorted out. Don stood staring, numbly at first, then with rising anger. He felt Jarrell's hand on his arm; then turned. Jarrell sighed. "Well, on the positive side, Stevens has tipped his hand. We know exactly what his defense will be, and we'll have plenty of time to prepare for it."

They turned and headed for the door, and Don shook his head. It just meant that much more time for this to hang over Charlie's head.

Jessica came through the doorway into the nearly empty hallway followed by Stevens and a court security officer, and as Charlie saw her, he stood, defensively, and backed away from the bench toward the wall, to give them more room to pass. He saw the smiles on her face and Stevens', and he knew without asking what the decision had been.

Jessica saw him alone against the wall, and inspiration hit. She was supposed to be crazy, right? No one would question it. She flung herself at him suddenly, enthusiastically babbling, "Charlie! I missed you so much!" She heard Stevens hiss her name, but she ignored him as she flew into Charlie with calculated force, pinning him against the wall with her cuffed hands against his chest.

The force of the impact sent Charlie's head into the wall with an audible, sickening thud, and the world spun. He stared dazedly at her in shock, trying to push her away with his good arm, and she pushed back, grinding her body into his. The hallway whirled nauseatingly. "Did you miss me, Charlie?" she whispered. He dimly heard shouting, Don's voice above the others, as her lips found his, and his world turned dark.

---------------------------------------------------

End Chapter 21


	22. Just When You Think It's Over

**Title: ****Julia**

**Chapter 22: ****Just When You Think It's Over**

Don watched through the kitchen window, as his father walked out to the solitary figure sitting on the bench near the koi pond, carrying a nutritional drink.

After the fiasco at the courthouse two weeks prior, they had taken Charlie to the hospital, even though he had regained consciousness just a few moments later. The doctors had pronounced his head to be okay; there was no sign of concussion on the MRI, although they conceded that there still could be a slight injury. They suspected that Charlie's collapse might have had more to do with shock than with the head trauma.

What they were concerned about was his weight loss. As they questioned him, Charlie admitted that although Alan had been making sure he got the proper food at the right times, he hadn't been eating much of it. The cottage cheese, yogurt and nutritional drinks were in disposable containers; he would eat a bite here, take a sip there, and when no one was looking he had thrown away the rest. Since then, Alan had made it his mission to make sure that Charlie ate everything he was supposed to. Religious fanatics couldn't have been more focused. Don watched as his father sat a bit stiffly next to Charlie, and handed him the drink, and his mind drifted back to that day at the courthouse.

The memories came back to him in snatches. The sight of the guard trying to get past Stevens to Jessica, of Megan flying down the hall, of Jessica's look of triumph as they pulled her off Charlie. He could still feel the hands on his arms as he tried to get to Jessica himself; he could hear his own screams of rage ringing in his ears. Then, the sight of his brother slumped against the wall, pale and lifeless; the look in his eyes when he woke.

Finally, most disconcerting, was the memory of Alan's arrival at the hospital. Upon discovering what had happened, including the outcome of the hearing; his normally collected father had exploded. He grabbed an instrument tray next to the bed, fortunately empty, and flung it across the room, and when it bounced off the wall and landed on the floor, he kicked it, yelling about warped justice systems and inept security, with a few foul words thrown in for good measure. Don had frozen, staring in shock, and it was Charlie's quiet voice that finally calmed his father down.

Since then, Charlie had retreated even further into himself. He was now willing to be alone; in fact he seemed to prefer it. Alan's outburst had seemed to shock even himself; he had finally agreed to talk to a doctor recommended by the hospital, and seemed to be coping a little better. They still couldn't convince Charlie to go, however. Don had talked to Megan privately about it; she had told him that what Charlie was experiencing were classic reactions for a rape victim, and that he could benefit greatly from therapy. Getting Charlie to agree to it was another story.

He was pulled from his thoughts at the sound of his cell phone, and he dug it out of his pocket, flipping it open. "Hey, yeah, Colby, what is it?"

"_Don, I was at the courthouse today and saw another petition from Jessica on a judge's calendar. I called in some favors – a lot of favors – and found out what she's up to. I'd like to come and tell you about it."_

Don's brow wrinkled in puzzlement. What could she possibly want now? Maybe she was going to pronounce herself cured…but that didn't make any sense. Chances were she'd just have to stand trial, then. "What's the deal?" he grumbled into the cell.

There was a pause, and then Colby's voice came over the line, sounding strangely hollow. _"I really think I'd better tell you in person."_

---------------------------------------------------

Charlie stared at the koi, idly speculating. If he floated face down in the pool, would he have the strength of mind to keep himself there, to inhale water, and allow himself to suffocate, to drown? He could lie in the pool and decay; provide food for the fishes, provided they would even want to eat the piece of garbage floating in their quiet sanctum. His morbid thoughts were interrupted by his father, who sat down beside him, and handed him a nutritional drink. Charlie took it mechanically and drank, holding his breath, trying not to taste it; then set it down on the bench.

Alan stared at the fish for a while, and then glanced at Charlie. "Son, I know this has been hard – it's been horrible – but you need to try to start to moving past it. No one expects you to heal overnight, but you need to at least try. Take some small steps, talk to someone. It's been helping me."

Charlie's eyes traveled skyward, and he shook his head, his face twisted wryly. "You're worth helping."

Alan frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Charlie looked down, still shaking his head, and didn't reply.

"Are you trying to say that you don't think you're worth helping?"

Charlie face twisted again, with pain. "There's something wrong with me," he whispered.

Alan's frown deepened. "What? Why?"

Charlie swallowed, and looked at the pool, his face contorted with inner agony. "There has to be. I fell in love with her to begin with. Until the hearing, I still believed that I loved her. There has to be something fundamentally wrong with me that I would be attracted to that kind of – person."

Alan stared. Charlie had just put together more words in one moment than he had in the past two weeks, and Alan had the distinct impression that he was on the edge of something – that something that Charlie had held deep inside himself was on the verge of being revealed. He chose his words carefully, trying to keep his son talking.

"Donnie was attracted to her too, at first. When I met her, she was quite charming. She didn't represent herself truthfully, Charlie. She was playing a role. You didn't fall in love with the real her. You were duped, and it was intentional. It's not your fault."

Charlie closed his eyes, as if in pain. "There's more than that."

"What, son?" The silence following his question stretched so long, Alan thought that Charlie wasn't going to respond. He had to strain to catch the quiet words when they finally came.

"When she – raped me, I -," he stopped, his face twisting with shame. "Physically, I responded. I must have wanted it, like the attorney said." He hung his head, humiliation plain on his face.

Alan stared. "Oh, Charlie. Have you been thinking that all this time? Of course you responded. The J-rock didn't give you a choice."

Charlie snorted, a small mirthless breath of air. "It lowers your inhibitions, makes you groggy – like Rohipnol. I went a little further than that."

Alan shook his head. "Charlie – the way it was explained to me, J-rock is not like Rohipnol." Charlie looked at him, doubtfully, and Alan suddenly realized that his son really didn't know. "Charlie, didn't anyone explain to you what that drug does?"

Charlie looked away. "I know what date rape drugs do."

"Son, J-rock is different. Why do you think people try to use it, when it has the potential to kill people? Along with the disorientation and memory loss, it produces that – physical response. From what Megan told me, often more than once per dose. The victim doesn't have to be willing – in fact they don't even need stimulation. It just – happens."

Charlie was staring at him, and Alan could see revelation in his eyes, tempered by doubt. "But…Millie doesn't want me to teach anymore. She knows I don't deserve it."

Alan groaned, and shook his head forcefully. "Oh, no, Charlie. No, no, no. She knows you'll have surgery on your arm this summer, and that you're already dealing with a tremendous amount of stress. She's just trying to be considerate. My God, son, what have you been thinking? Millie knows everything – and she was livid, let me tell you. The words she called that woman…. I didn't even know she knew those words! The last person she blames for any of this is you."

Charlie swallowed and looked away from his father, back at the pond. He considered Alan's words for a while, then finally decided to make sure he understood. His voice was hushed and small when he spoke. "You mean – it was going to happen, regardless of what we…she…was doing?"

"Yes, son, I thought that you knew, that someone had explained that to you." A stunned look crossed Charlie's face, and to Alan's consternation, his son put his head down, one hand over his face, and began to shake. Alan's heart broke when he realized that Charlie was sobbing, silently.

He moved closer and put his arms around the thin shoulders, and as the impact of what Charlie had thought hit him, his stomach twisted. The sadness of the revelation was offset with another feeling, however – hope; hope that this would change his son's perspective. If Charlie didn't blame himself, he could move on. Maybe they had reached a turning point, thought Alan with increasing optimism.

He heard footsteps behind him, and turned to see Don squatting next to them, concern on his face. Charlie raised his head, and was wiping at the tears on his face, trying to get control. Don watched him for a second; then looked at his father. "Colby's here," he said quietly. "He says he has something to tell us."

Alan frowned, his arm still around Charlie's shoulders. "He can't tell you? Your brother needs some time."

Don's brow creased, and Alan could see the worry in his eyes. "He insists that Charlie needs to hear it too."

Charlie took a last swipe at his face, cleared his throat, and looked at Don. "It's okay – I'm okay." He rose, slowly. Alan absently picked up the drink and shook it, another part of his brain registering automatically that it was mostly full, and that he would need to get Charlie to drink more of it later.

Moments later, they sat in the living room, and Colby sat across from them, in an armchair. Normally unflappable, he seemed nervous, and he twisted his hands in front of him as he spoke. He started at the end, unsure how to say what he had to say.

"The judge denied her petition," he said, voice wavering a little, not really looking at any of them. "She didn't pull Wilson this time, and the one she got said that if she is not competent to stand trial, she's not competent to make this kind of decision, either."

Don scowled. "Come on, Granger, spit it out. Denied what, exactly?"

Colby looked chagrined, and took a deep breath. "She requested permission for an abortion," he let loose in a quick sentence that was difficult to understand. "She's pregnant."

They gaped at Colby in shock, and Charlie's stunned eyes drifted slowly away, fixing unseeing on the opposite wall. "Oh my God," he whispered. Don stared at his brother, his heart breaking, and for a long moment, all that could be heard was the quiet ticking of the clock on the wall.

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In the end, it had been Alan who had been the voice of reason.

After a moment joining in the stunned silence, he marched up to Charlie and thrust the plastic bottle in his direction. "Sit down and finish this," he ordered, as if that was more important that potential grandfatherhood. Not waiting for any acknowledgement, he glanced over at Colby. "I read those reports. Megan showed me, so I would know everything. The woman was not exactly a virgin." He sounded a little disgusted.

Don started at the tone in his father's voice, but latched onto the truth of his message. "Right. Right. Charlie, we have testimony from Markie, her J-rock contact, and others. We can't know if this baby is yours!"

Colby sat up a little in the chair, his dejected slump giving way to hope. "My source said there was some urgency to get the…get it…. She wanted to make the first trimester. Apparently, Jessica is already a couple of months into it!"

Charlie managed to keep a grip on the drink his hand had automatically taken from his father as he lowered himself carefully to the couch. He placed it on the floor, untouched. "Not Jessica," he interjected in a monotone. "That means it happened before the warehouse, when she was Julia. When I loved her."

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End Chapter 22


	23. One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

T**itle: ****Julia**

**Chapter 23: ****One Step Forward, Two Steps Back**

Having ignored his numbers since his rescue, Charlie had spent the last several weeks immersed in them. The latest twist to the ordeal that had become his life had driven him back into himself with a vengeance. He was in the garage so much that Alan bought a small refrigerator to keep out there, stocked with the nutrition Charlie so desperately needed. Then he put a kitchen timer on the desk, hoping that when it went off every few hours, his son would hear it and remember to eat. Alan checked on the refrigerator's contents daily, but even though the stock dwindled, he worried. He remembered that Charlie had thrown the containers away earlier, and he was afraid that he might be doing that again.

Charlie would glare at him when Alan double-checked the refrigerator, and turn up the volume on his iPod. Don tried to reassure his father late one night in the kitchen, while they waited to see if Charlie was coming in that evening, or sleeping on the old sofa under the blackboards, again. "Sometimes he's actually got something in his hand when I go out there," he noted. "Besides, his doctor went ahead and referred him to the orthopedic surgeon, for his arm. He said he's gained enough weight back."

Alan sighed and looked at his eldest. "What about you, son? I think you've lost weight, too, and you're going back to work tomorrow. I'm not sure you're ready."

Don shocked the hell out of Alan by agreeing. "Me neither." He saw the frown on Alan's face and hurried on. "Not physically – physically I'm as ready as I'll ever be. Since Charlie won't spend any time with me anymore, and barks at me whenever he notices I'm in the garage, I've been able to get to the gym every day."

Alan sighed. "This morning he threw a plate of eggs across the garage and out into the yard; I don't think he was aiming at me. Last night he called Larry a spy and ordered him to get the hell out and let him work in peace."

Don was shocked. He had been under the impression Charlie saved his nastier moments for him. "He has got to talk to someone about this," he said, emphasizing his point with a fist on the table.

Alan jumped slightly. "I wish he would. He was finally opening up to _me_, at least, that night at the koi pond. We were just making some headway." He tried to smile at his eldest. "I'm glad you're seeing the doctor regularly again, though. The therapist he recommended for me has been of more help than I ever would have imagined possible, for that matter." He grew pensive. "Charlie's not really angry, you know. Anger is just a defense mechanism to cope with too much pain."

Don's smile was genuine, and fond. "Great. Now I get psycho-babble from you as well as Bradford."

Alan still looked at Don with worried eyes. "Dr. Bradford doesn't think you're ready to go back to work, does he?"

Don crossed his arms across his chest defensively. "We've talked about it at length. And I talked to Merrick. Upshot is, since I'm taking a few more days in July when Charlie has his surgery, I'm on the desk until then. Bradford will consult with a Bureau shrink, and give recommendations about exactly when I can get back in the action." He grinned slightly at his father, trying to lighten the mood. "It's a freakin' conspiracy. Don't tell me you're not in on it."

Alan visibly relaxed. A smile tugged at his lips, but didn't quite make a landing. He looked down, tracing figure 8s on the table. "Are you moving out, then?", he asked in a small voice.

Don felt himself redden, although he didn't really know why. "I'd…. Well, I'd like to stay here a few more weeks, until after Charlie's surgery. The DNA test. I'd like to be around for that. Is that okay?"

This time the smile firmly took root. "Donnie. You can stay here forever, you know that." He nodded, as if thinking something over and agreeing with himself. "You should make it a point to invite Liz over more. Charlie's always in the garage, and I can make myself scarce. I'd like to see at least one of my sons moving forward."

Don snorted. "Dad! Don't worry about that front, okay: You haven't seen her much lately because she's been assigned temporarily to the San Diego office. I thought I told you. Geez."

Alan sighed. "Ah. Well. I'm glad to hear that." He heard his own words and seemed a little disconcerted. "That there's not a problem, I mean, not that she's gone."

Don laughed. "I know, I know what you mean!"

To his surprise, Alan's eyes suddenly shimmered as if he was about to cry. His father cleared his throat. "I want to thank you, Don. You've been so patient, and kind, with your brother. And such a support. Don't let him convince you that he doesn't want you, or need you, anymore. Love bit him roundly in the ass, Donnie…" He grimaced, remembering Amita. "A couple of times. But I have to believe that eventually, Charlie is going to remember how much he cares about us; and how much we care about him. Sooner or later, Charlie is going to remember who he is."

Now it was Don who was almost crying. "I hope so," he managed to choke. "I'm counting on that."

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It wasn't "P vs NP".

It was the Yang-Mills theory, one of the other Clay Mathematics Institute's Millenium Problems. Progress in establishing the existence of the Yang-Mills theory and a mass gap required the introduction of fundamental new ideas both in physics and in mathematics. So it was, by all rights, a better problem for Charlie to pursue. One of his undergraduate degrees was in quantum physics, after all; he could use a broader base of knowledge while he worked on this. Traditionally, mathematicians and physicists approached Yang-Mills from different directions. He was the perfect choice to marry the viewpoints.

At the same time, it had been an idiotic, self-destructive problem to pick. His best friend was a physicist. He should have known it would take Larry five minutes or less to figure out what he was doing. There was probably little chance that his friend would keep his secret, even though he had looked at him with sad eyes and promised that he would. He was undoubtedly a liar, like everyone else. Don and his father probably already knew.

Charlie stared at the invariant Lagrangian and told himself he didn't care. He had kept his promise, not that it really mattered; this was not "P vs NP". His eyes strayed up the board, to another equation.

He inhaled a sharp intake of breath, and snapped the piece of chalk he was holding in half. How had he never seen that before? There, that last lower-case "f", in parenthesis. If you looked at the scar on Julia's arm from just the right angle, it looked just like that.

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She was livid.

This had not been part of her plan.

Maybe, if he hadn't been such an idiot in the first place, she would not have minded eventually having Don Eppes' child. Much later, several years into their relationship – after she had him to herself, for awhile.

She didn't even know who the father of this bastard was.

From the timing, it could be that sniveling little Charlie. She certainly **did not** want that. What good was a genius I.Q. if the damn kid had no backbone? On the other hand, given her continual extra-curricular activities, it could belong to any one of a dozen nameless pressure-relievers. She thought about that and seethed. Either way, it was his fault. If he hadn't been such a Puritan in the bedroom, she would not have been forced into that life, again.

Jessica concentrated on these things while the technician inserted the long, thin needle into her abdomen and uterus for the court-ordered amniocentesis. Charlie's attorney had petitioned for a DNA test. Subsequent testing of the amniotic fluid would indicate whether or not Charlie was the father, but she was convinced it wouldn't matter. She had the sheet of instructions for post-amnio behavior, and she intended to do the exact opposite. She had been trying for a month already to get rid of this kid, and this was her best opportunity yet.

The equation she had been working on took its next logical step. If this pregnancy was, despite his DNA, all Charlie's fault – it could in actuality be traced back to Don. It was when Don ditched her and she had to get even with him – that was what had launched the whole, sordid chain of events.

As God was her witness, she was going to find a way to watch Don Eppes die.

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The orthopedic surgeon pointed to the x-ray hanging on the light box. Alan and Don paid close attention. Charlie thought about a new approach to Yang-Mills and ignored him.

"So you see the injuries. Quite common when using your outstretched arm to stop a fall. This distal ulna fracture, here…" – he used a pencil to point at something Alan wasn't completely sure he saw – "the closed reduction procedure used on that was quite successful. It's healed nicely. What I'm going to work on is the distal radial fracture. Here." Now that, that odd little blip in the negative, Alan could definitely see. It made him wince, a little.

Dr. Anderson continued. "As you've no doubt been able to tell already, the position of the bone is not acceptable to ensure proper function of your arm. Since the bone is set already, I'll have to do an open reduction – essentially, expose the bone and re-break it." Don blanched, and glanced at Charlie. His brother wasn't even looking at the x-ray that the doctor found so fascinating. "I'll then reposition the bone and use a titanium plate and a few screws to hold it in place. I won't know for sure until I do the repair, but I doubt that any kind of external fixator will be necessary."

By now the doctor was studying Charlie, and very aware of his distance. He cleared his throat, growing impatient. "It's at this point that I will attach a nursing kitten to your scrotum."

Alan blinked, wondering if he had heard that right, but Don actually came out of his chair and took a threatening step toward the doctor. "What the hell? Is this some kind of joke, to you?"

Dr. Anderson held up a hand and retreated quickly behind his desk. "Absolutely the opposite, Mr. Eppes, I assure you. I prefer to have my patients understand what they will be facing during and after a procedure. This requires that they actually listen."

Don stopped, uncertain. That wasn't an unfair expectation. He just hated to see Charlie…victimized…in any way. He was about to point out that he and his father were there for the details when, to his surprise, Charlie spoke up. "Of course. I apologize. I've been ignored by enough students to appreciate that sentiment."

Don gaped, and then returned to his chair on shaky legs. He hadn't heard a comment that long or that polite out of Charlie in weeks. He lifted his eyebrows at his father, who lifted his own, in return, but remained silent.

"Very well," nodded the doctor. "Let's continue. Barring complications, your stay in the hospital with be brief. 48 hours or less. Post-surgical cast for six weeks, physical therapy will begin immediately after its removal. Sometimes we start PT while the cast is still on, but since this is a re-fracture and repair, I'm going to wait on that. We'll evaluate your pain treatment after surgery. Often a synergistic approach of both ibuprofen and acetaminophen is sufficient. Or, we may need to resort to something stronger, narcotics, at least for a while."

At this Charlie leaned forward in his chair and hissed. "You will _**not**_," he spat. "You will _**not**_ give me drugs."

The other three men sat in silence. Alan reached out to touch Charlie's arm, thought better of it, and pulled his hand back. At length, the surgeon cleared his throat. He was not entirely unfamiliar with the patient's recent history, although he made a mental note to take the chart home and study it again. "Yes. Well. You can request that, of course. At any rate. Your wrist will be stiff for a few months after the cast comes off, but PT will help with that. Nevertheless, you should expect complete recovery to take up to a full year."

Charlie sat back in his chair and laughed, startling them all. "I should be so lucky," he muttered.

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End Chapter 23


	24. Decisions Are Made a Thought at a Time

T**itle: ****Julia**

**Chapter 24: ****Decisions Are Made a Thought at a Time**

Charlene, who during these last few years of her career was working as a "floater", having experience at most forms of nursing by now, recognized Charlie's name on the census list. She was good at her job, reliable, and the patients loved her. She had achieved a certain status and clout, all the more powerful because she seldom used it. This morning, though, she had made a request: She would like to work in orthopedic surgery for the next few days.

The nursing supervisor, nearly forty years younger than Charlene, did not question the older nurse. She had learned long ago to value her assets, and Charlene was a definite asset. She merely moved Charlene's magnet to the "ortho" section of the white board and waved her away. Charlene bustled between two other floaters, momentarily interrupting their argument. One was a fresh grad whose diploma was not yet dry, and the other – a definite disciplinary challenge -- was currently working at her fourth hospital in two years. Both were demanding pediatrics and refusing general population assignments, yelling at each other and their scheduling supervisor in turns. She sighed audibly as she watched Charlene go, humming, and hoped cloning was perfected before the woman retired.

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"Leave. Me. Alone."

Dr. Anderson clenched his jaw and addressed Alan and Don, although his eyes never left Charlie. "Perhaps you should. Get some coffee. I'm not sure either one of you wants to be here for this."

Don, hands shoved in his jeans' pockets, tore his gaze away from his brother's drawn face, tight with pain, and tried to growl at the doctor. For some reason, it didn't sound all that intimidating, in the end. More like a whine. "What are you going to do to him?"

The chart slammed on the end of Charlie's bed, a solid thump echoing in the room, and the surgeon's eyes flashed. "Talk. I want to talk to this man."

Alan, arms wrapped around his torso as if he was cold, stood from the chair next to the head of Charlie's bed. "I'm not sure you understand," he pleaded. "My son…."

Dr. Anderson finally looked away from Charlie, and the eyes that met Alan's were full of compassion and depth. "I won't hurt him. And I do understand. I understand that you and your oldest son have very good reasons for taking this shit off him right now. I don't question your concern for Charlie's best interests. Nor will I violate your trust. The sad fact is that someone needs to be the voice of tough reason with this patient, and right now, I do not believe it can be either one of you."

Well.

Don found himself wondering how the doctor _really_ felt. He also experienced an enormous sense of relief that almost embarrassed him. In spite of his own need to be the one in charge of most situations; regardless of his still-overwhelming need to take care of Charlie; Don liked this guy and his no-nonsense attitude. He looked at his father, who still seemed a little hesitant, and was looking at Charlie. His brother's eyes were closed now, and he was ignoring all of them, fully retreated. Don shrugged when Alan looked at him. A shudder worked its way through Alan as he turned his attention to the doctor. "We'll just be in the cafeteria. We can be paged."

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The hospital room door had swung shut behind them, and Dr. Anderson had waited at the end of the bed until he thought they had probably reached the elevator. Charlie's eyes remained closed. He was either ignoring him, had achieved a successful psychotic break, or was asleep. Approaching the chair Alan had vacated, the doc was pretty sure it wasn't Door Number Three.

"You know," he began conversationally as he sat in the chair Alan just vacated, "I did not spend half my adult life in med school, internship and residencies to have reluctant patients mess with my success rate as a surgeon. My wife worked three jobs to get me through school, and she would resent this as well."

No response.

Dr. Anderson's tone became less friendly and more professional. "It's a low-grade infection that could be controlled very nicely with the body's own immuno-suppresive responses and a nice antibiotic, if you would accept something else for the pain. A body has a finite amount of soldiers. If they are all required to fight pain, there is no one left for the front lines of the infection. It's not like I want you hooked on morphine. I'm suggesting a few days of Percocet here at the hospital, perhaps a week of Vicodin once you return home."

Charlie didn't open his eyes, but he responded in a dull, bitter voice. "How about J-Rock? Want to inject me with some of that? I understand I can put on quite the performance, under the influence of J-Rock. Of course, since everybody's sick of me anyway, maybe you can give me some of that Ketamine, like Don had. He was pretty quiet, then."

Dr. Anderson waited out his speech. In the end, he gave a low whistle. "So. That's the way it's going to be. I wish you had told me this earlier – that you're giving up. I wouldn't have bothered to fix anything." He shifted a little in the chair when Charlie turned his head slightly to look at him, and yawned. "Shame about your family. That you can't seem to convince them you're worthless, I mean."

Charlie used his best glare, a little disconcerted when Dr. Anderson did not back off the way Don and Alan and Larry had learned to, in the last few weeks. "It's not…I don't…you don't…I can't…." Frustrated, he gave up on a full sentence and moved his head again so that he was staring at the ceiling.

The surgeon gentled his voice. "You were not a blind referral, son. I've read the chart. I'm not making light of your…experience. It seems to me that you have endured the worst already, and it would be a great loss to us all if you gave up now."

Charlie opened his mouth with the full intention of telling the doctor it was none of his damn business, and was startled to hear something completely different come out. "It wasn't just the warehouse. We had a relationship before then…even though I know now that it was never real, for her." His voice was sad, resigned, heavy with defeat. "She's pregnant. She's pregnant. She's crazed, commited, evil, and pregnant. It might not be mine, but if it is, they want me to do something about it. What? What?"

Surprisingly, Dr. Anderson had to sit with that information a very short time. He didn't even seem all that shocked, Charlie noted, hearing the man's calm and modulated voice. "Well, I suppose they're suggesting you claim custody, as the non-crazed parent."

Charlie turned his head again and gaped at him in shock. "What if it's a girl and she looks like her mother? Red hair? Green eyes? How could I ever look at her and feel anything remotely related to love? Every time I saw her, I would see only what her mother did to me, and I would hate her. What kind of way is that to raise a child, for God's sake?" By the end of his presentation, some passion had crept back into his voice.

Dr. Anderson raised a hand and rubbed absently at the stubble on his chin, then dropped it to his lap again. "Well," he pointed out, as if this was a perfectly normal conversation to have, "you know that's not the only option. If you have status as the biological father and custody, you can choose to place the child up for adoption. Either privately, or through the state. At the very least, you can admit that the child is not at fault here, and should not be condemned to life in the system. Continually ripped out of one home and thrown into another. Possibly even having to live with its mother, occasionally, when she manages to convince the courts she's sane again. My own son is adopted," he added proudly. "My wife and I thank God every day for whoever was strong enough to consider his welfare, and allow that to happen."

Charlie blinked, definitely surprised at the…sense of loss…he felt. "Then you think if it's mine, I should let him go."

Dr. Anderson heard the disappointment in his voice. "I'm just saying that's an option," he answered softly. "I'm trying to show you that you have options, Charlie. You're not helpless, drugged and restrained in an abandoned warehouse anymore. You can talk to professionals, talk to your family, be proactive and move out of the role of victim." He smiled. "Provided we get you out of the hospital, of course. The drug therapy continues to be your choice as well, but I would be remiss in my duties not to explain my recommendations to you."

Before Charlie could answer there was a knock on the door, and he actually grinned at his surgeon. "Something tells me my Dad is tired of waiting."

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Charlene adjusted the blinds and pulled the curtain around the bed as quietly as she could, pleased to see that her patient finally slept soundly. She wanted that to go on as long as possible. The lines of worry had smoothed in his face, and that pleased her even more. She knew Dr. Anderson had spent some time talking to him earlier, and that man was one of her favorites. An honest, down-to-earth, tell-it-like-it-is, fella.

She gently checked the temperature of Charlie's skin with the back of her hand, the way anyone with sense knew how, and glanced at his dear father, slumped asleep in that uncomfortable chair. This boy's family had been with him from the start, that first time in the hospital, too. She hoped he appreciated them. The brother slept, too, on the other side of the bed in an even worse hard-molded plastic chair, and she was careful not to bump him awake as she leaned over the rail and trailed a feather-light finger over Charlie's face. She nodded. Stubble. In the morning, they would have another shave.

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Don pretended to watch the television, the volume low, but he was actually watching Charlie, trying to figure out how he felt. Either Percocet was suddenly a wonder drug in the psychiatric world as well as a pain reliever, or that had been some talk with Dr. Anderson. Not that Charlie had suddenly decided to communicate with them, or anything. During the hours he was awake, he was still largely silent. But the silence had taken on a different quality. It was more contemplative, less morose. Given the fact that he was less than 24 hours out of major surgery and sick with an infection, that was actually kind-of remarkable, and Don thought again that he really kind of liked this Anderson guy.

The sun had gone down long ago, and the television offered the only light in the room. Still, it was enough that Don could see when Charlie yawned. A commercial began playing on the television screen and Don stood stiffly. "Dad," he called softly, startling Alan out of a doze himself, "it's late. Charlie needs his rest. We should go."

Automatically, Alan started to protest. "But I just assumed I'd stay…"

Don opened his mouth to argue reason, but Charlie beat him to it. "Dad. They might let me go home tomorrow – Monday, tops. It's not like the last…it's fine. You can come back in the morning. After you've made some gelatin, of course."

Alan blinked at his son's jab, which was the most normal comment he'd heard out of him since the news of that woman's pregnancy. Don grinned at him, and sailed right in. "And soup. I'm sure there will be chicken-noodle and minestrone, at least, Chuck."

Charlie smiled, but didn't quite pull off a chuckle. Alan, standing now himself, figured that was too much to ask, and played along. "That reminds me. We need to stop at the market."

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As soon as the breakfast trays were picked up, Charlene appeared in Charlie's room with her disposable razor and hospital-issue canister of shaving foam. Stopping in the bathroom for a small basin of water and some towels, she beamed at her patient when she finally reached the bedside. "A nice shave will make you feel better," she chatted, maneuvering the bedside table into place. "By the time your family gets back, you'll be all fresh and ready to go."

Charlie, feeling lethargic from a lingering fever and absently taking his own pulse from the steady throb in his arm, nevertheless picked up on that. He looked at her through hooded eyes. "I can go home?"

Charlene clucked like a mother hen, carefully repositioning his arm on a stack of pillows. "Now, now, chile, you not gonna trick ol' Charlene. You know you've still got a slight fever." She continued to work on him, lathering up his face as she talked. "It hasn't gone up, so that's good news. In another hour, we'll give you some more pain meds, and the next time you wake up, I'm bettin' that fancy new anti-Bi-otic will be showin' that infection who's boss."

Charlie frowned slightly under the foam, and considered begging off the pain meds again. In truth, though, his arm was killing him, and he wanted nothing more than to be reclaimed by sleep at that moment, so he hesitated. Charlene rapidly and efficiently stroked the razor with the grain of his beard, and he found he had to squeeze his eyes shut against the vision of Julia coming at him with her Xacto blade.

Charlene noticed, but her voice stayed friendly and light. "You know, my Clara married a white boy. Good boy. You remind me of him, I guess that's why I'm partial to ya." She laughed, a deep throaty chuckle. "He has curly hair too, when he lets it get too long."

A little taken aback, Charlie was definitely drawn into the conversation again, and out of his memories. He opened his eyes and tried to think of something to say. "My Dad's always saying I should get a hair cut. I think he'd like it to be as short as my brother's."

"Fine lookin' man, that one," Charlene nodded. "It's nice to see such a close family. Makes me so sad, sometimes, the people I see in here every day without no visitors. I can't help but wonder how we all got so far apart. Didn't used to be that way, you know. Families stayed together."

Charlie's eyes strayed to a corner of the room. "I might have a child," he whispered shyly, saying it for the first time aloud.

Finished with the shave, Charlene used the towel in her large black hands to rub stray bits of foam off his face. She laughed, surprising Charlie again and jerking his eyes out of the corner. Backing away slightly and lifting the basin of water to return it to the bathroom, she shook her head. "Lawdy, you young folk. This ain't no pair of brown socks we're talking about, boy. Some people call'em 'tan', some people call 'em 'cocoa' – three people with the same pair o' socks all got different names for 'em. But a child? Mercy, honey, you've either got one or you don't." She continued muttering as she sloshed toward the bathroom. "All that education we throw at 'em, and they can't even tell whether or not that thing bawlin' and wettin' in the corner is a _child!_"

She continued to rant in the bathroom, but Charlie only caught the occasional word. What he had heard so far was running through his brain on an endless loop, drowning her out: He either had one, or he didn't.

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Charlene's prediction regarding the antibiotic proved as flawless as the rest of her nursing, and Charlie's temperature was normal by late the afternoon after his surgery. Dr. Anderson promised to release him early the next morning if it stayed that way. Still, after waiting for paperwork, it was lunchtime before the Eppes were back at the Craftsman. While Don settled an exhausted and slightly loopy Charlie in the position of honor – their father's recliner – Alan set the small bag he had taken to the hospital near the bottom of the stairs. Turning around, he smiled nervously as he watched Don carefully arranging pillows and elevating Charlie's arm. "Should I heat up chicken-noodle or minestrone?"

Charlie's eyes rolled slightly and Don winked at him. "Green Jell-O,' he whispered, leaning close to his brother's ear. He felt warm breath on his cheek as Charlie giggled, and his heart burst nearly out of his chest. Unable to stop himself, he ruffled Charlie's hair fondly as he stood. "Either, Dad. Whatever."

"Minnie. Minnie Stronee," Charlie sing-songed. "With baloney." Alan rewarded him with a brilliant smile, scurrying off, and Charlie was glad to know he had finally come up with the right answer to something. He sighed, snuggling into the chair. "Dazeit?", he demanded.

Don frowned in confusion until he figured out that was four words. "Oh. What day is it? Monday." He should have slipped Charlie some Vicodin months ago, he mused.

Charlie sighed again. "Jou goin' back….urk…". His eyelids were drooping, and Don was pretty sure they would have to wake him up when the soup was warm.

"Did you just call me a jerk?", he teased. God, this was fun. When was the last time he and Charlie had fun?

Charlie shifted in the chair, grimacing a little and struggling to open his eyes wider. "Mkay," he said. "Know…work…port…".

Don watched his brother fall asleep and continued to stand over him for a moment. He knew Charlie wouldn't hear him, but he answered anyway. "Yeah. Work's important, Charlie. Just not as important as you are."

Halfway through the swinging door to ask if Don wanted a bologna sandwich too, Alan paused, listening to the exchange. His eyes were on a portrait of Margaret that hung on the dining room wall. As Don spoke, he blinked against sudden pressure at the back of his eyes, and slowly retreated back into the kitchen.

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Don soon found himself uncharacteristically...giddy.

Charlie was home, relatively healthy and finally, making an effort to deal with everything he had piled up in the mound of things to deal with. Then, at his Tuesday afternoon appointment with Dr. Bradford, the psychiatrist had agreed that Don himself was ready for field duty again. As icing on the cake, Liz would be returning from her temporary assignment to San Diego within days. Still, Don tried to contain himself, both because he wanted to be available to Alan and Charlie; and, because frankly, at some deep level, life scared him shitless. Part of him craved the relative safety of the moment, and was reluctant to see it end.

By Thursday afternoon, cranky from pain and already trying to go without his medication, Charlie out-and-out yelled at him from his nest in the recliner. "Go the hell back to work, already, Don! You're driving me the few remaining blocks that separated me from insane! Dammit!"

Don, hovering over him with a bottle of water, vacillated between guilt of unknown origin, and dumping the water on him. Finally he remembered the cast and settled for a good sulk on the couch. He stomped over and fell heavily into it. "You're mean," he grumbled. "Take a pill."

Charlie snorted out a short laugh. " _'You're mean' _? That's the best you can come up with? Don, you really have to start getting out of the house. Maybe it's time for you to move back to your apartment."

Now Don was genuinely hurt, and Charlie saw it. Any progress he himself had made over the last few days evaporated, and he felt worthless and hopeless, again. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. That's not what...shit." Don didn't respond, and he sighed heavily, actually feeling his heart drop a little farther. "I appreciate all you've done. Really. All the time you've taken, and staying here to help Dad. I am such an ass."

Don heard the despair in his voice, but couldn't quite let him off the hook, yet. "I was going to stay until you get the results."

Charlie sighed again. "Why? Whatever they are will precipitate some new level of the drama. This is endless, Don. Neither one of us can wait for...for...equilibrium, before we get on with our lives. You'd be here forever. I don't object to that, really...it's just that I want you to be happy. Like you have been, the last few days. I know you value your privacy at the apartment, and I know how much you're itching to get back in the field."

They were both silent for a moment, listening to Alan rattling pans in the kitchen. "I am so not hungry," Charlie finally said, changing the subject. "He makes my favorites, but I just can't eat very much anymore. He doesn't seem to remember that, or something."

"He remembers," Don assured him, having found Alan more than once in the middle of the night sitting in the dark living room, unable to sleep, haggard and worn. "He'll cut the recipes down when he's ready."

Charlie regarded him solemnly for a moment, let his eyes flicker toward the kitchen, and then lowered them to his casted arm. He was going to have to give in about that pill, soon. He looked back at Don. "If the amnio says it's mine, I'll petition for custody. That's as far as I can get. I want to do some research on adoption before I decide anything else. It might not even be mine, and all this is for nothing. She carved it in my chest, but Julia was really the one who was a slut, I've heard..."

Don gaped at him, a little surprised to hear Charlie so fully address anything that had happened to him. It was a fragile moment, and he searched for the right thing to say. He didn't want to discourage his brother from any step forward he might take. Lamely, he settled for "That's a good idea. About adoption, I mean, and also about taking your time."

Charlie nodded silently, leaning his head back against the chair and closing his eyes. "Maybe just one more pill." he eventually whispered, and Don heaved himself off the couch and hurried into the kitchen.

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By Sunday, while the newly-returned Liz was helping Don cart clothes back to his apartment, Charlie was feeling well enough to sit on the couch himself. His casted arm was propped on the arm of the sofa, his feet were crossed on the coffee table in front of him, and he was negotiating the Internet with one hand. Alan had reclaimed his recliner, and was engrossed in the latest Ian McEwan novel, pretending very hard that it didn't bother him to see Don leave the house with armloads of clothes. His eldest son had been gone on his second trip for about an hour when Charlie startled him by slamming shut the laptop and tossing it to the other end of the couch. Alan looked up. "Problem?"

He didn't even know what Charlie had been working on, so he was a little surprised at his son's response. "How did you feel when Mom told you she was pregnant? The first time, I mean, with Don."

Alan carefully bookmarked his place and closed the book, taking his time. "Well," he finally pointed out, "it was hardly the same situation. We were married, and we'd always intended to have a family. We knew we would be raising the child together, in love, and we were very happy. Just as we were the second time, " he carefully added, looking pointedly at Charlie. "Of course your brother and I will support you and help you in any way we can, son, but you shouldn't delude yourself. When you raise a child with a full-time partner, it will be a different experience."

Charlie smiled sadly. "I hope you're not holding your breath on that one, Dad. I think Julia broke my trust gene. Among other things."

Alan smiled gently himself, not willing to negate the seriousness of Charlie's dilemma with a flip remark. "I sincerely hope not," was his only comment about that. Then he steered them back to the topic at hand. "Charlie, are you thinking of raising the child?"

Charlie actually paled a little, and bit out a choked "No!" so quickly that Alan knew that he was, whether he could admit it yet or not.

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"So you must be pleased, finally back in the field." Megan handed Don the cup of coffee she had been holding for him.

He accepted it with a grunt of thanks. "Of course, it has to be a stake-out. Liz is finally back in town, too, but I'm stuck here for who knows how long. He's a longshoreman, for cryin' out loud, why does Granger think he's such an integral part of this case?"

Megan smiled and sipped her own coffee. "You're just grumpy because you came back in the middle of a case, and Granger's the lead. Don't feel so threatened. You're lead agent on the seven new cases we've caught in the two days you've been back!"

Don grinned. "Yeah."

Megan rolled her eyes fondly and stifled a yawn. "Back in the apartment, huh? Charlie must be doing...better?" A hopeful note crept into her voice.

Don shrugged. He guessed he could give her 'better'. "He's dealing. Slowly. Half a step at a time. He's still not back at CalSci, what with the surgery and PT and everything on his arm. Once Millie convinced him that she really did want him back and wasn't going to fire him, Dad and the doctors and I ganged up and convinced him to take another semester. He's having a little trouble maintaining his weight, still. But he's...okay."

Megan shook her head. "I know Larry wishes he could spend more time with him, but he's helping cover his classes. The extra workload..."

"It's okay," Don assured her. "Charlie's not great company yet, anyway. I doubt he's up for a chess game." He glanced sideways at her and grinned again, evilly. "Besides, I'm sure you'd like to occupy part of Larry's time yourself."

Megan slugged him in the arm, and willed herself not to blush.

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Charlie had been home after his last surgery for two weeks, and was spending short amounts of time working out in the garage, much to Alan's consternation. He left the Yang-Mills work alone for the time being, although he would study it now and then. Mostly, he just tried, in an awkward one-armed manner, to reorganize and input some cognitive emergence research. He still succumbed to regular naps on the couch. He thought too much, but Alan thought not enough. When his son did drift off every afternoon, he stole into the kitchen with his book, so as not to disturb him. Today, when he heard Charlie moving around, Alan glanced at his watch and nodded. Two hours. Two hours was good. Alan heard the front door open and then close again, and in a few more seconds Charlie appeared in the kitchen clutching a stack of mail in his good hand. He barely made it to the table before it spilled all over its surface. "Sorry," he said.

Alan smiled and picked up the spoon beside his coffee to use the end as a letter-opener. "No harm. Do you want me to open anything for you?"

Charlie pawed through the stack, occasionally tossing an envelope toward his father. His hand hovered over one for a while, and then he picked it up cautiously, as if somewhat afraid of it. He brought it up closer to his face and peered at it, then stretched his hand out to his father. "Maybe you should do this one." Both his hand and his voice were shaking, and Alan knew without looking that it was the lab results. Quickly he accepted the letter, ripped open the envelope without benefit of his makeshift opener, and shook out the paper inside. Without looking at it or making any comment, he smoothed it open and then handed it back to Charlie.

Charlie's eyes met his for a long moment, and then he looked at the paper in his hand. He re-read it several times, finally muttering "98.7 percent" in a voice so soft Alan almost didn't catch the words.

He looked back at his father, and the anguish in his eyes actually made Alan gasp and start to scoot back his chair to stand. "Charlie..."

Charlie's next words were louder, and froze him to his spot as quickly as cyrogenics. "I have a daughter." The paper fluttered back to the table, and Charlie headed for the kitchen door, suddenly unable to get to the garage quickly enough. "I have to go to work."

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Terrified by the look on his youngest son's face, Alan had called Don -- only to interrupt who-knew-what. He had forgotten that Don and Liz had driven a few hours down the coast for a few days. The instant Don heard what was in the mail, he was ready to cut his trip short. "Dammit, Dad, I should have waited. I knew that letter was coming. Look, we were heading back in a few hours anyway. We've both got to work tomorrow."

Alan had managed to find some equilibrium, just listening to his son's voice. "No, Don. He's got to handle this on his own, we can't do it for him. Much as we may want to. He's just...working, in the garage. There's food, and water, out there."

Alan heard the murmur of Liz's voice, and then further protests from Don. "Liz understands about this, Dad, let me..."

Alan interrrupted firmly. "Donnie. He knows we're here for him. I think we're just going to have to wait this one out."

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As difficult as it was for Alan to leave him in the peace of his numbers, Charlie was soon so engrossed, he didn't even notice.

When he solved the Yang-Mills theory, with a simple supersymmetric inverse scattering process, it was 2:30 in the morning, and he was momentarily stunned. Charlie staggered back a step, stared at the board and then quadruple-checked his work. Then he spent an hour retracing the entire hypothesis through the series of eight blackboards, and he could not find anything wrong. He grabbed at his waist to retrieve his cell phone and call Larry, and get his opinion, but when he didn't make contact with anything, he suddenly remembered why he was working on Yang-Mills in the first place, and wobbled a little. He stood in the middle of the garage, in the middle of the night, and remembered Julia.

It was almost five a.m., and the sky was just beginning to lighten, when he carefully erased every blackboard in the garage.

Then he walked into the house, up the stairs and into his father's room without knocking.

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Alan snorted awake and sat up as quickly as his 72-year-old body would allow. "Charlie?", he called into the still room, not sure the unmoving form in the chair near the bed was real. "Son? What is it?"

Charlie answered in a low, controlled voice that obviously held tears at bay. "Please tell me what she would think. I don't know. I don't know. You and Don, you're here, and you can tell me if you don't want this, but I'm not sure about Mom."

Alan threw his legs over the edge of the bed and leaned over to be closer to his son, so he could keep his own voice soft. "What do you want to know, Charlie?"

Charlie studied the curtained window. "I want to give her three names. For the three most important people in my life. _Alana Margaret Dawn. Alana_, and _Dawn_ with a W, because she's a girl. With _Margaret_ in the middle, because she always tied everything together. Would Mom be okay with that?"

Alan's heart swelled at the thought of his first grandchild bearing his name, as well as Margaret's; with Don's thrown in for good measure. Suddenly his arms ached to hold her, this tiny reward for the worst experience of Charlie's life, and he cleared his throat a few times. "I think," he rasped, and cleared his throat again. "I think your mother would feel the same way I do. Honored and touched that you love us enough to continue our names into the next generation." And then he had to ask, he had to hear Charlie say it. He whispered, reverently. "Will Alana be living with us, son?"

Charlie smiled, and it was as if Alan had drawn the curtains and let the sun spill into the room. "Of course. Where else would my daughter live?"


	25. Arrival and Departure

Julia

Chapter 25 Arrival and Departure

Charlie picked up his T-shirt, and paused for a moment. He needed deodorant. He turned and headed into the bathroom, his eyes downcast, avoiding the mirror. He hadn't looked in the mirror shirtless for months; he had discovered early on that the sight of the letters carved in his chest delivered a blow that was more painful, more devastating to his fragile self-esteem, than any of the physical injuries he had received. So he was stunned as he picked up the deodorant, catching a quick glimpse of his chest in the mirror, and saw – nothing.

Well, close to nothing. He turned slowly, studying his chest. The scars had been thin to begin with, because they had been made with a razor blade, and had since faded. The fine white lines were next to invisible under the hair on his chest. To anyone who didn't know they were there, they _would_ be invisible. He straightened, and for the first time in months, looked himself directly in the eye, and saw a whole person. Damaged, still hurting inside, but whole. Someone who just might have a purpose in life. Someone, who, for better or worse, was going to be a father.

Thoughtfully, he stepped back into the bedroom; mechanically applying deodorant to one armpit, and awkwardly to the other, then wormed his way into his T-shirt. His left arm was finally free of a cast, and he had started physical therapy, but surgery and weeks of inactivity had left his arm extremely weak. His grip in particular was feeble, even though he had been working hard in physical therapy. He only had six more weeks before he had to have two functioning arms, so he could hold the baby.

In the past few weeks, he had come to grips with the decision he had made. He had decided he was ready for this; he had to be ready somehow. He gathered books and magazines and catalogues, looking at pictures of cribs and changing tables, reading articles on child rearing, and the more he looked at, the more he read, the more his feelings had developed. He had gone from a sense of trepidation, and the realization that it was his duty to care for the child, to mild interest, to absorption, to fascination, and finally to anticipation. He was going to be a father, and in spite of some anxiety over how well he would do, he suddenly couldn't wait.

He _would_ do a good job, he vowed. He would get his act together again – he had already started. Over the past months, Yang-Mills had been replaced by the healthier, more realistic pursuit of Cognitive Emergence theory; and he had never told anyone about actually finding the answer. Yang-Mills had joined the "P vs. NP" list, and he could never be proud of the time he spent on it. He had begun slowly, and then with more frequency, to perform the odd calculations here and there for Larry; and then added some side projects for Millie. Recently, he had started to prepare for the upcoming semester. He had decided that it was time to go back to teaching, and to his relief, Millie was more than supportive of the idea. They had agreed on a class schedule – the next semester was still two and a half months away, but suddenly Charlie couldn't wait for that either.

After his talk with Dr. Anderson, he had also begun to realize the toll his anger was taking; on himself, and on his father and brother. He had been trying hard to change that; he had started by simply modulating his responses by speaking in a civilized voice instead of snapping. Encouraged, his father and brother had responded by talking more instead of retreating, which had sparked actual conversations. It was helping all of them to heal. Last week, he had gone out to lunch with Don, for the first time in months.

He had so much to do; things to buy for the baby, he had to find a nanny or daycare if he was going back to teach… His thoughts spinning, he headed downstairs. His dad was at work; the house was peaceful, quiet. A little tea, some yogurt, and the latest _Baby News_. He was looking forward to it.

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_Finally._ Jessica gritted her teeth through the rising contraction, as they rolled her down the hallway on a gurney, and into the delivery room. As much as she usually enjoyed pain, childbirth somehow didn't seem to have the same effect. Her repeated efforts to snuff out the life inside of her had apparently failed, and she had carried the damn thing to just six weeks short of full term. The room was a flurry of activity; nurses, the obstetrician circled around, preparing. They helped her off the gurney onto the delivery table. '_Look at them_,' she thought scornfully. Running around with concerned looks on their faces. They actually cared about the brat; cared that it was six weeks early. She didn't give a crap, and it was hers. Well, it disturbed her that Charlie had been awarded custody; but then it disturbed her that Charlie was alive.

The only thing that mattered to her now was that she would soon be free. Free of the disgusting thing inside of her, and soon free, period. One way or another, she was going to use this opportunity to escape. Then it would be complete release, complete autonomy, somewhere on an island, far away. But before she left, she had some business to take care of. She smiled. Sweet revenge. First Don Eppes, then Charlie. Today, with any luck, would be their last day on earth.

One of the nurses saw her smile, and smiled back. "Do you have a name picked out?"

Stupid bitch had no idea who she was, that she was supposed to be criminally insane. She was actually trying to make conversation. Jessica smiled sweetly at her. "Yes," she said, her voice dripping with saccharine. "Julia."

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The call came at two-thirty. Charlie was deeply immersed in a transfer function, and it made him start, and look around wildly for the source of the noise. Phone, he realized. He took the call on the kitchen phone, expecting it to be Alan.

"_Mr. Eppes?"_ came the female voice. "_This is the delivery room at Huntington. We were instructed to call you when the baby was born."_

"Yes, this is Mr. Eppes," stammered Charlie, his head reeling. "But – it's early – she's not due yet -," He fumbled with the phone, trying to place it on his shoulder, and looked around desperately for a note pad.

"_Yes_," came the voice, "_She was six weeks early-,"_

The rest of the conversation was lost as the receiver slipped from Charlie's shoulder and tumbled to the floor. He picked it up and put it back to his ear. "Hello? Hello?"

The connection had been broken. He looked frantically around for the phone book; then thought better of it. He could be there in ten minutes. It would take him almost that long to look up the number and call them back. He dashed upstairs to find his wallet and his car keys.

On the way out to the car, he grabbed his cell phone from the dining room table. Holding it awkwardly in his weaker hand, he hit Alan's speed dial. The phone rang as he climbed into the car. He waited impatiently until Alan's voice mail came on. "Dad, it's Charlie. I'm on my way to the hospital – they called – Alana's here. I'll be at Huntington."

His hands shaking with adrenaline, he hit Don's speed dial next, with the same result – voice mail. Where in the heck was everyone? He left a similar message and tossed the phone on the seat, starting the car, and shot down the driveway, tires squealing in protest.

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The orderly wheeled Jessica down the hall toward the private room. The police officer stood outside, and Jessica allowed her head to loll against the pillow, trying to look out-of-it, spent. In actuality, she was ready to turn cartwheels. She was free of the brat, and to top it off, it had been stillborn. While her efforts had not resulted in a miscarriage, she had still done some kind of irrefutable damage. She smiled inwardly, anticipating Charlie's pain. Let him have custody. Custody of a corpse.

The orderly pushed her through the doorway and situated the bed in its proper location, and a solemn-faced nurse pushed up a bedside table with a pitcher of water. "Can I get you anything, dear?" she asked; sympathy on her face.

"No," sighed Jessica, and she contorted her face in false grief, hiding it with her hand, and forcing out a sob. "I just need some privacy."

"You just hit the buzzer if you need anything," replied the nurse, and she was gone.

Jessica was immediately on her feet. Adrenalin more than compensated for the physical ordeal her body had just been through. She un-taped the IV from her hand, and pulled out the needle. Creeping toward the door, she peered through the crack. She couldn't see anything but hallway, and she pushed it open an inch, then another inch. Finally she dared to stick her head out. The idiot cop was leaning against the nurses' station down the hall, his profile to her, talking with one of the nurses. She smiled and slipped out, gathering her gown around her and heading toward a nearby exit sign, waddling a little.

One floor down, there were rooms for patients recovering from surgery, and she walked slowly down the hall as if she was on a routine exercise stint. She finally saw what she was looking for, a locker room, and slipped inside; listening to make sure it was empty. She heard footsteps, and ducked behind a row of lockers. The door opened and shut, and then it was silent. She slipped around the row, and found a table with folded green surgical scrubs. Just what she needed.

As she slipped the hospital gown off and stiffly pulled on the pants, satisfied to discover they were large enough to pull over her disgusting baby fat, she glanced down the row of lockers. One of them was protruding just a bit, as if it hadn't quite shut. She slipped the green tunic over her head, as she walked toward it and gave it a pull, and it jerked open. Eureka! This just had to be her day. Inside was a purse, and better yet, shoes. There were jeans and a shirt in there too, but they were way too small. Better stick with the scrubs.The clogs were too small, too, but they would get her out of the building. She crammed her feet into them, and slinging the purse over her shoulder, walked out of the room and boldly down the hall.

Two minutes later, she was outside, hailing a taxi, on her way to her gym. There was a warm-up suit and tennis shoes in her locker there, and spare keys, including keys to Don's apartment.

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The meeting broke up, and Don finally fished his cell phone out of his pocket, his heart leaping a little as he saw Charlie's number. In the last month or two, his brother had finally started coming out of his self-imposed exile, and had started to talk, to open up. They had actually had lunch together last week. His heart fell as he looked at the clock. Two forty-five. It was way too late for lunch – he had missed him. He called up the message anyway.

Megan glanced at Don on the way to her desk; then did a double take. He had stopped dead, and his mouth was hanging open. He snapped the phone shut and looked up at them. "That was Charlie – he left a message – the baby's here." He strode over to his desk and grabbed his keys, as they stared back at him. "I'm going to run over to Huntington – Charlie's already there."

"I thought it wasn't due for another month," said Colby, confusion on his face.

"Six weeks," replied Don quietly.

"They can do a lot with premature babies," offered Megan, her eyes sympathetic.

Don nodded, and headed out of the bullpen. He refused to speculate. He was just going to assume that the baby was okay. For Charlie's sake, he couldn't bear to think otherwise.

"Call us!" yelled Megan after him, and she looked at Colby and David, apprehensively.

As Don got off the elevator, he dialed Charlie's cell phone, with no response other than voice mail. "Charlie, it's ten to three, I just got your message, and I'm leaving the office now. I'm going to stop at my apartment, and then I'll be right there." He headed for the parking garage, with an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

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Charlie fidgeted impatiently on the elevator, and took off like a shot when the doors opened, half jogging down the hallway. He paused briefly at the nursery, scanning the half dozen babies in their clear bassinets, and then shook his head and moved on. A baby this premature would be in intensive care, he told himself. He moved on, down to the nurses' station, his heart pumping.

"Can I help you?" asked the nurse behind the desk, a pleasant-faced blond woman of about forty, whose tag said "Trish."

"They called me at home," stammered Charlie. "For baby Eppes. I'm the father." As he spoke the word aloud, his heart leapt. He was a father. He had a baby girl. He wondered if he would be allowed to hold her in the ICU.

Trish took in the thin young man in front of her, his face pale and serious. '_Poor thing_,' she thought. '_He seems to be holding up well, though_.'

"Of course, Mr. Eppes," she said, moving around the station. "Come with me." The morgue had not come up yet for the child; he could see it here. It was much better that way, she thought.

Charlie followed her to the delivery rooms, and looked puzzled as she turned into a smaller room off of one of the delivery bays. "I would have thought they would have brought her to the ICU already…," he began, and then trailed off into silence as he looked over her shoulder at the sheet-covered bassinet. He felt the void, the chasm; begin to open in his chest even before she spoke.

She was looking at him in dismay. "I'm so sorry; they didn't tell you?" He was staring silently at the bassinet and she answered her own question. "She was stillborn."

He was still gazing at the bassinet, and began to move slowly toward it, and then stopped, still staring blankly, as he reached it. She wasn't sure if he had heard her, and she moved beside him.

She gently uncovered the tiny body, and he felt his heart contract. The form in front of him was a work of art, miniscule, fragile, delicate; perfect. Tiny hands and feet, a delicate face with nearly translucent skin, even the faintest of dark fuzz on her head. There was tag at the head of the bassinet. "Julia Eppes."

He shook his head, still stunned. Jessica had taken everything from him – even his child's name. He looked at the nurse, and the sadness in his face touched her heart. "That's wrong," he whispered. He reached out and tore at the tag, which he could not pry loose. "Her name is Alana. Alana Margaret Dawn Eppes."

Trish looked back at him, her face full of pity, then backed toward the door. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please, take as long as you need. I'll go…make a new tag…." She slipped from the room, and Charlie turned back to the bassinet.

He stood there and looked down at her, his daughter, and touched the delicate cheek gingerly with his forefinger. He stood there, as the first twinges of pain hit his heart, still staring at her beautiful little face. He stood there, as the pain magnified and grew, turning into a yawning void that threatened to swallow him whole. He stood there, and the tears streamed down his face.

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End Chapter 25


	26. I Didn't Think You Had It in You

_A/N: Thanks to all of you who have been reading and reviewing this - one more chapter to go after this one..._

**Title: Julia**

**Chapter 26 ****I Didn't Think You Had It In You**

Don pulled into the parking lot at the apartment, and the vehicle screeched slightly as he tromped on the brake. The feeling of apprehension was rising, and his mind was on Charlie and the baby at the hospital. Jessica would be there too, he realized. A sudden thought occurred to him as he trotted toward the building. Dear God, what if Charlie ran into her there? He knew the chance of that was remote; she would be in a room under guard, but the thought put wings on his feet. He had bought the baby a gift – a memory book; and he wanted to grab his camera – which was something that Charlie would want – that Don figured in his hurry that he hadn't thought to bring.

He dashed up the steps to his apartment, skirting two workmen on the stairs. Minutes later, he was fumbling with the key, his rush to get in making his hands unsteady.

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Jessica wandered around Don's apartment, a beer in her hand, waiting for him to return. She figured it would be a while; at the very least until he was done with work, and maybe longer, if he found out about the baby and went to the hospital, or to see Charlie. Well, she was here, waiting; she might as well set some things in motion. She stepped over the phone, and dialed.

"_Yeah." _The voice on the other end was gruff, suspicious.

"Hello, Markie," she purred.

There was a dead silence as he recognized the voice. "_What are you callin' here for? I don't want no part of you_."

"I need a favor, Markie, and you owe me."

"_I don't owe you nothin'_."

"You know you do," she said softly. "You know I could have spilled the beans on your whole operation, any time, these last months." She let the threat hang in the air.

There was a sigh on the other end. "_What d'you need?"_

"ID," she said, "Passport and drivers license, both my real name and false." She had one set already, that she had picked up from her locker, but she knew that she could use a backup. She suddenly heard footsteps in the hall, and she lifted her head from the receiver to listen. "Look, start working on that," she said quietly. "I'll call you back."

She hung up, set down the beer and picked up the baseball bat, and shrank against the wall by the door. As the key sounded in the lock she looked down at the bat. It was engraved with his name. Don Eppes. She smiled, and lifted it over her head.

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Don stirred, and moaned, trying to open eyelids that were inexplicably heavy. His head pounded, and his vision swam, and he focused on his bare chest. He was sitting in a chair, and he wasn't wearing any clothes. That didn't seem right.

He shifted, trying to move, and found that his hands were secured behind him, his feet tied to the legs of the chair. His mouth felt odd, and he realized it was taped shut. His eyes flew open as comprehension hit him, and his heart jumped in his chest. His eyes fell on the clock; he had been out only twenty minutes. How had he gotten into this position in twenty minutes?

A voice behind him made his blood run cold. "Hello, Don."

Jessica. How in the hell had she gotten away? His eyes picked her up in his peripheral vision as she strolled around to the front of him. He was sitting in one of his kitchen chairs, he realized. She had pulled it out of the small cramped kitchen and into the living room.

Jessica eyed him, smiling. Awake already; that was good. As much as she had wanted to bash his head in with the bat, she was careful not to hit him too hard. While he was unconscious she had undressed him, and then had laid a kitchen chair on its back and maneuvered it underneath him, tying him to it, lifting him by grabbing the chair back and sitting it upright. Even with the leverage the chair back gave her, he was heavy, and she was breathing hard from the effort of trying to lug his body into position. She hoped it wouldn't make her start to bleed. No matter if it did. She was going to finish this.

Her eyes ran over his nude body, and she felt a surge of desire. Too bad she didn't have any J-rock. At least he would suffer before he went. She ran her hand over the shaft of a large awl that she had picked up from a toolbox on the way of the stairs. The toolbox belonged to two workmen in the hallway, but neither one of them noticed as she slipped it out and tucked under her warm-up jacket. It had a sturdy handle, the shaft was about eight inches long, and it came to a sharp point at the end. It would do nicely.

She looked at Don, her smile twisted. "Long time no see. How've you been?" Her smile vanished, and her face turned ugly with hate. "Me? I've been rotting in a fucking mental institution, thanks to you. You and your freak of a brother. You are going _so_ going to pay for that, for all of it. And when I'm done with you, I'm going to finish off your brother." Don's eyes flashed, and he twisted in the chair, trying to loosen his bonds.

She stepped forward, and traced a line across his chest with the awl, gently, almost lovingly, and then shifted her grip on the handle. She looked into his eyes as she forced the tip into his shoulder, and his muffled groan made her flush with pleasure.

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Charlie wasn't certain how long he stood there, before he slowly became aware of Trish, behind him. It must have been awhile, because the tears had dried on his face. He turned, and she spoke gently. "They're here to take her downstairs."

His mind wasn't functioning. "Downstairs?" he repeated, dimly.

"To the morgue," she said quietly, noting the fresh pain that flitted over his face. "I'm sorry."

He shook his head and stepped aside as a man entered the room, and then suddenly, he couldn't bear anymore. Not by himself. He stumbled blindly out of the room and down the hall, and didn't stop until he reached his car, collapsing in the front seat. Fresh tears coursed down his face as he dialed his father, and he shook his head impatiently when it went to voice mail again. He didn't even bother to leave a message; instead dialing his brother's cell phone, which to his dismay, also got him voice mail.

It wasn't until he hung up that he saw the message indicator for his own voice mail, and retrieved the message. "_Charlie, it's ten to three, I just got your message, and I'm leaving the office now. I'm going to stop at my apartment, and then I'll be right there."_

Charlie looked at his watch. Ten after four. If Don had come to the hospital, surely Trish would have told him; he would have been there. He must still be at his apartment. He wiped his face, and awkwardly held the wheel with his left hand while he put the car in gear. He was going to see his brother.

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Megan waved wildly for Colby and David, and hit the speaker button on the phone, as they approached her desk. "Wait, you're on speaker. Repeat that," she said.

The voice came out of the speaker. "_This is Sergeant Wicks from LAPD. We had a man on Jessica Eppes at Huntington. About fifteen minutes ago, he reported her missing. We're currently searching the hospital, and we have an APB out for her._ _Thought you guys might want to know." _

Megan looked up at Colby and David, alarm in her eyes, as she spoke. "Yes, thank you. Let your men know that we will put some agents out on this also. If you find anything, call this number." She gave him her cell phone, and hung up, and then immediately began punching in a number. "I'm calling Don."

Colby shook his head. "Of all the inept, stupid…"

He was cut off as Megan spoke, her face grim. "I'm getting his voice mail. He's probably at the hospital with Charlie." She stood. "David, you and I will hit the hospital. Colby, why don't you stop at Don's apartment on the way, just to make sure he isn't there, and then meet us at Huntington?"

Colby nodded, and finished his thoughts silently as he followed Megan and David out. "_Bone-headed idiot cop. How in the hell had he managed to lose a patient in a hospital gown?"_

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Jessica heard the doorknob, and then the sound of keys and froze. Don's head whipped around. The beauty of puncture wounds was that they didn't bleed as much as cuts, and although streams of blood ran from the half dozen holes she had put in him, they were thin, and Don was still fully conscious, fully aware. She had stuck to piercing his limbs for starters; she wanted to prolong the pain, make him suffer as much as possible before she stabbed him somewhere lethal.

She looked at the door wildly. Who in the hell would that be? Did he have a girlfriend? She grabbed the back of his chair, trying to drag it out of sight toward the doorway to his bedroom, when the door opened, and Charlie stepped in. She paused, stunned for a moment, and then grabbed Don's head with one arm and pushed the point of the awl against his neck. "Shut the door and step inside," she hissed, "or he gets it in the neck."

Charlie had frozen in shock, the sight of her; and his brother's nude bloody body rendering him immobile. He gave the door behind him a push, without turning, and it drifted shut. His eyes met Don's, and to his huge relief he saw that they were steady. He also saw the service revolver sitting on the end table in front of him.

Jessica saw Charlie's eyes move, and followed his line of sight to the end table. "Don't even think about it!" she yelled, but even as she said he darted forward to pick it up, and held it in front of him shakily.

He thought frantically, trying to remember his lesson at the shooting range with Don, his eyes darting down to the pistol and then back up at her. "Let him go." His voice sounded steadier than he felt. He glanced down again at the gun, awkwardly flipping off the safety with a finger. He brandished it a little, and both Don and Jessica flinched. "I said let him go," he ordered a little more loudly. This time his voice shook, and it matched the shaking in his hand.

She saw weakness, and smiled. "Okay, Charlie, look, I'm putting my weapon down." She laid the awl on the floor and began walking toward him slowly, still smiling. "You put yours down, too. You know you don't want to shoot me."

Charlie inched backwards slightly, panic searing through him. She was right, he didn't. "Stay back," he said; his voice unsteady.

Don looked at him frantically, his eyes wide over the tape on his face. '_Charlie, don't let her get close, for God's sake, just shoot her!'_

Jessica moved toward him slowly. "You still love me, don't you?" she said her voice soft, seductive. Charlie stared back at her, as if mesmerized. "I'm still the woman you love, the mother of your child…"

Charlie shook his head. "Don't make me do this." The words came out as plea. He had once said he didn't believe in guns; he could never conceive of shooting another human being, especially not one that he had had a relationship with. He looked frantically toward Don, who looked at him, fear in his eyes. The sight of his brother's nude body, covered in blood, brought back his own experience in the warehouse with a sudden, piercing pain. He remembered being in that same position, looking at his brother for help. Now it was Don who was there, and it was up to him. He looked back at Jessica, who had come within three feet of him. Dear God, he had to do this, and he wasn't sure he had the strength.

"Charlie!" Don exclaimed, pleading. The name was completely muffled by his gag, and came out as a moan. Charlie tore his eyes away from Jessica at the sound, and they focused again on his brother. As he looked away, she pounced, grabbing for the gun, using both of her hands to try to twist it out of Charlie's single-handed grip. The struggle drew them together, and at that moment, Charlie knew he had no choice. He couldn't let his brother down. He closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger.

Colby had entered the building and made it up the stairs, finding the door to Don's apartment open a crack. He heard the voices inside, and recognized them instantly. He pushed open the door, and leveled his service weapon, only to find Charlie and Jessica locked together in a struggle for the gun. As he opened his mouth to speak, he heard the report.

When the gun went off, Don watched in a panic, his chest heaving. Was one of them was hit? Which one? He saw a look of shock spread over Charlie's face, and he moaned. "_Please God, no…"_

Jessica staggered backwards, a stunned smile on her face, clutching her chest. The pain was like nothing she had ever felt before. "Oh God," she breathed, "that's so good." She gasped, smiling at Charlie, who stared at her, stunned, the gun forgotten in his hand. "I didn't think you had it in you. Oh…" She moaned again in pain and pleasure, staggering; then sank to her knees, wheezing, making strange gurgling sounds. She swayed a little; then fell backwards, sprawling on the floor, with a hand still over the wound, blood spreading like a flower under her fingers. She took one last wet gasp and was still, her lips curved in a smile, her open eyes on the ceiling.

Colby moved forward and gently pried the gun from Charlie's hand. Charlie was shaking, staring at Jessica in shock, seemingly unaware of Colby's presence. The agent moved quickly over to Don, removing his gag. Don was staring at his brother, and as soon as the tape was off, he said, "Charlie."

Charlie's eyes jerked toward him at the sound, and he began to move toward Don, but his face was still strangely vacant, his eyes unfocused. He knelt, as if in a daze, by Don's side, and wiped at the blood on his arm, as if that would somehow help. He looked up, and whispered, "Are you okay?"

Don took in the still unfocused eyes. The puncture wounds hurt like hell, he was dizzy, and his head throbbed. He was anything but okay, but what really bothered him was the look in his brother's eyes – the shock, the sadness, the guilt. "_He shouldn't feel that way_," thought Don, "_it was her fault – she yanked on the gun_. _Of course it went off."_

He looked at his brother searchingly. "It's okay, Charlie. You didn't mean to hurt anyone – she grabbed the gun. It was an accident." The words came out hoarsely, and he looked down into Charlie's upturned face earnestly.

Charlie just stared back for a moment, and then nodded silently. He would let his brother think that. Don didn't need to worry about what he was thinking; he needed help himself. He pushed the pain and guilt down somewhere deep inside; and looked at Colby.

Colby had removed the tape on Don's wrists and ankles, and stood and began to pull out his cell phone. As he did, Don swayed suddenly, and Charlie grabbed him with both arms as he toppled. Colby grabbed his legs, and they eased him out of the chair. Charlie's weak arm and the slippery blood on Don's skin kept him from getting a good grip, and Don ended up sitting on the floor, leaning against Charlie's chest. Colby looked around, and spying a blanket on the sofa, grabbed it and covered Don, draping it all the way around Charlie. Both of them looked shocky, and Colby hurriedly punched in 911 on his cell phone.

Don dimly heard him talking to the 911 operator; he was still feeling dizzy, and he leaned against Charlie, who held him with as fierce a grip as he could manage. The top of Don's head drifted against Charlie's cheek, and they sat that way until the ambulance came, staring at Jessica.

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	27. Finding All The Pieces

**Title: ****Julia**

**Chapter: 27: ****Finding All The Pieces**

Alan was still old-fashioned enough to view cell phones as interruptions. When physically with one person, he believed, it was incredibly rude to ignore them while you answered the phone and dealt with some pedestrian matter that could no doubt be saved for later. Especially since he had figured out the whole voice mail thing, he didn't just leave the cell on vibrate when he was meeting with prospective clients. He left the damn thing in the car. It was important that a potential client feel that he and his project were the only things on Alan's mind during these meetings. Today, however, although he was as personable and affable as ever on the surface, letting his natural charm do its best, there was an uneasy nagging in his heart all the way through lunch. He would have chalked it up to heartburn -- they were eating spicy, Italian food -- but the disappointment he felt when the client suddenly said he was ready to sign eliminated that possibility. Alan smiled anyway, reaching into his briefcase for the papers he would need, and tried to tell himself how happy Stan would be about this. It was a multi-million dollar project, by far the largest their little consulting business had ever been involved with. But all he wanted to do was... Well, he wasn't even sure. But he needed to do something. Something important was happening.

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EMTs had a difficult time prying Charlie off Don. Frankly, suspecting Don's wounds were mostly superficial, they were more concerned with him anyway, so they worked around him as long as they could, making sure Don was stabilized. Colby continually placed his own broad body between the Eppes brothers and Julia, successfully blocking their view from the LAPD action going on in that corner of the room. Thank God the coroner had not arrived yet. When he saw a blue-gloved hand reaching for what he knew was Charlie's bad arm, Colby stepped in. "Don't. Just...can you give me a sec?" The EMT met his eyes and sat back a little, but wouldn't move far from his patients.

Colby crouched at Charlie's side, his hands dangling between his legs. "Whiz Kid." He spoke quietly, directly into Charlie's ear. "It's all over now. Let these people get Don ready to go to the hospital. Let go of him now, and...come and tell me about your baby. The baby was born today, right?"

Charlie shuddered, his grip on Don loosening. That had been Colby's intention. The part he wasn't quite ready for was Charlie passing out cold and slumping into him.

It almost knocked him over, but Colby managed to hold onto both his balance and Charlie. He lowered him to a supine position on the floor, and an EMT was quickly pulling back his eyelids and shining a penlight in Charlie's eyes. "Pupils equal and reactive," he informed the room at large. "I think he just fainted."

Don was struggling with the other EMT now, trying to get at Charlie. "Let me...Charlie! Colby, help me..."

It was at this moment that an LAPD officer's excited voice drifted over to them. "Yeah, it's her, all right! Her photo just came over the computer in the squad car a few minutes ago! I'm tellin' ya, Martin, it's that escaped mental patient. The one who had the dead baby and then ditched..." At Don's gasp, he stopped speaking suddenly and glanced guiltily over his shoulder. Don had fallen back on the floor, tears running down his face, no longer fighting with anyone. The cop looked uncertainly at his partner. "What?"

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When Alan finally got to his car, after walking the client to his and waving while he drove away, he threw the briefcase into the back seat and snatched the cell phone off the passenger seat. Barely taking the time to check the display, he registered three messages and held the phone to his ear, listening to the first one: Charlie, breathless and excited, almost three hours earlier. _Dad, Dad, Huntington just called me. Julia has been transported there and she's having the baby! Alana's early...wasn't I early? Please come to the hospital when you get this message, I won't be able to answer the phone._ Alan's heart leaped in his chest and then thudded with fear. Yes, Charlie had been early -- not quite this early -- and it was one of the most frightening memories of Alan's life. He fumbled with the keys, aiming for the ignition and missing, dropping them on the floorboard. He was leaning over awkwardly to retrieve them when the second message played: Megan, voice tight and worried, a couple of hours later. _Alan...Larry and I want you to know how sorry we are, about the baby. Whatever you and Charlie need...Please...um...Alan, I'm sorry, but I need you to call me back as soon as you can. There's a...situation, and I need to know you're safe. Please_. Alan sat back up quickly, keys in hand, gasping into the phone. Sorry about the baby? Oh, dear God... He sat in stunned silence and missed half of the third message: Megan again, he finally realized. ..._ington. Colby is with them, and he says it's not bad, Alan, really.._. He moved the phone away from his ear and stared at is as if it was alive. What? What wasn't bad, and who was Colby with? Barely able to control his hand, he hit the code to replay the last message and held the phone to his ear, again, still reeling from the first two messages. He listened again and a sob originated in his gut and tore from his throat. He threw the cell across the car and jammed his keys into the ignition so hard he was lucky they didn't break.

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Smelling salts offered by an EMT had awakened Charlie, and after answering all their questions satisfactorily, they allowed Colby to half-drag, half-carry him to a position behind Don's head. Once there, he repeatedly ran a hand through the short-cropped hair and whispered "You're all-right" over and over and over. By the time they all got to the ambulance -- Colby almost drawing his weapon to ensure that they both got to ride with Don -- he sat next to Granger on the padded seat, holding Don's hand and paying careful attention to every move the paramedics made. He asked appropriate questions regarding Don's condition. He was either reassured, or knocked off his axis again when he arrived at Huntington-Memorial for the second time that day. He became almost docile, which was a relief to the EMTs. They had been half-expecting him to fight being separated from his brother. Instead, he allowed himself to be led to his own exam room, and let Don recede from his sight into another. Eventually a trauma physician concurred with the EMT evaluation that Charlie was physically all right, but asked him to rest in the trauma bay until Don got back from a CT scan. Instead, Charlie sat up as soon as the room was empty.

Climbing off the exam table, he knew he could not feel worse.

His brother was hurt, and he was hurt because of Charlie. If Charlie had only seen the tiniest glimmer of who Julia really was, almost a year ago, he could have found a way to prevent all of this. He never would have been subjected to the consequences of J-rock, or raped, and Don would not have been drugged at the warehouse and then attacked at his own apartment. If Charlie had never slept with her, he wouldn't have almost been a father, and he would not be faced with the loss of his daughter now. Had he used half the brain he had been given, he would not now be a murderer. If Charlie had any strength at all, he would be able to stay here right now, waiting for Don; but knowing that his child rested in the morgue of this very building sent him stumbling out the exam room door and careening off the walls like a pinball in his search to escape the hospital.

Finally finding an exit to the air outside, Charlie did not even realize, in his grief, that Megan and Colby were shouting at him, or that David had him by the arm. Charlie knew no sensation but his pain, until the scent of Old Spice somehow brought back his hearing, and he recognized his father's voice. His knees gave way, and his father's strong arms caught him, and the sense of touch returned as well. He sagged until he hit the pavement, and his father came with him, and sight returned. Focusing on Alan's tear-streaked face, Charlie at once knew that he could go no further. He could not fight any more battles alone. He was spent. Completely, down to his last molecule.

He melted into his father's arms then, inhaling oxygen in huge shuddering gasps, and allowed himself to feel love.

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As nights go, it easily ranked way up there as far as the most heartwrenching, horrifying experiences he had ever had.

He was sure it came in second only to the night he sat beside Margaret's hospital bed, crammed into a corner of the living room, and waited for her to die. He had wanted to be in two places at once then, too. Then, as now, his eldest son shared the time with him -- although not in quite the same way. This time, Donnie was in the hospital bed. Then, as now, his youngest son had retreated into a dark cavern of pain, and Alan had no idea how to reach him.

Don shifted in the bed and opened his eyes, blinking blearily at his father for a few moments before looking around the room. "Dad," he rasped, redirecting his gaze to his father, "I told you to go with Charlie. Liz said she'd stay, and I'm just here for observation anyway. I'll be out in the morning." His dark eyes shone with moisture in the dim room. "He shouldn't be alone!"

The door swung open, admitting Liz, carrying two Styrofoam cups of coffee. Her eyes lit up as she saw that Don's attention followed the sound at the door, and she hurried into the room. "You're awake! How are you feeling?" She stopped to hand Alan his coffee; then almost tripped over her own feet in her rush to get to the bed. She placed her own coffee on the bedside table and leaned over to brush Don's lips with her own. When she straightened, she saw that he was angry, and she frowned as she hesitantly started to rub his arm, then, disturbed by the band-aid covered puncture wounds, decided to play with his fingers instead.

He let out a huff of air through his nose. "He should have gone home with Charlie."

Liz looked at Alan, uncertain. While she and Don had been together for a while now, in the beginning they had purposely kept their relationship very low-key. Her relationship with the Patriarch Eppes had always been cordial and friendly, but she didn't want to step over any invisible lines. It had occurred to her, on the trip after coffee, that Alan didn't really trust her to take care of Don, and that was why he had chosen to stay. Given the terrible truth of the things Don's last girlfriend had proven capable of, she had decided not to take it personally. Now, however, she was dismayed to spy a tear sneak out of Alan's eye, which he impatiently wiped away.

He moved as if to get out of the chair, and spoke in a choked voice. "Your brother doesn't want me there, he asked me to give him tonight, to let him be alone. I'm sorry. You don't need me here either, I should have thought, stayed with Stan or something..."

And that quickly, Don felt as if he had been stabbed again. He struggled to sit up. "No, no, Dad, no. Don't go. Please, I'm sorry!"

His voice was clogged with tears, and when Alan did get out of his chair, it was to cross to the bed. "Hush," he commanded, pushing gently on Don's shoulder until he lay back down. "I don't feel any better about this than you do, Donnie. He threatened to go to a hotel, and he was very insistent that I stay here with you tonight. He's been through so much. We have to respect him, trust him to know what he needs."

Don blinked up at him, his mind warring with itself. It wasn't that he didn't respect Charlie, he told himself. And he _did_ trust him, with his very life; he just wasn't ready to trust him with his own, right now.

Alan sighed, his hand still on Don's shoulder. "If it helps any, he said that I could call him if you need him."

"Of course I need him," Don grumbled, still unhappy.

"As do I," concurred Alan. "But I'm fairly certain that's not what he meant. He also said he'd see us in the morning," he added, hopefully.

Don closed his eyes and swallowed. A promise, then. Charlie had made a promise, and he would cling to it throughout the endless night.

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Charlie sat in the dark, in the silent solarium, and contemplated the last year of his life.

At length, he decided it had all gone wrong even before then, back when he and Amita broke up. He also decided it probably didn't matter.

He listened to his mother's old grandfather clock ticking in the corner, and for some reason it reminded him that he would never hear Alana wail into the night. He would never walk the floor with her while she was teething, and he would never hear her tiny voice talk to Grandpa. He would never get to know his own daughter. From a purely scientific standpoint, he found it odd that he felt so…bereft. Just a few short months ago, Alana had been nothing to him but a punishment, a curse endured for every last sin he would ever contemplate committing. Somehow, in the space of time between then, and now, she had become someone he would always, ever, miss.

He was glad he had been firm with his father when the sobs began to rip from him, burning his throat with their intensity. Knowing he was alone, he didn't make any effort to stop crying. Instead, he curled into a fetal position in the corner, his bad arm cradled protectively out of habit, and for Alana – he wailed into the night.

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Don was dressed and ready to go when Charlie appeared in his room just before 9 a.m., even though the paperwork wasn't done yet. Charlie arrived with both his face and his speech carefully composed.

He accepted a brief hug from his father, and even an infinitely more rare one from Don. Then he separated himself from them physically by a few feet, and cleared his throat. He spoke in a somewhat raspy voice, his throat still irritated. "I'd…I'd like to say something." He cleared his throat again.

Alan exchanged a quick glance with Don, and then spoke for them both. "Of course. We can sit…."

Charlie shook his head. "No, thank you," he said politely. "But you can," he added as an afterthought. When no one moved for a few seconds, he continued. "I…cannot express enough my appreciation for you both. I would not have survived this last year without you….Hell, let's face it: I would not have survived Mom's death without your love and understanding. Please know that I mean that."

Alan lifted an eyebrow. "I can always hear a _'but'_, son."

Charlie actually smiled a little at that. He focused on Don. "I called Dr. Bradford at four this morning. He's agreed to see me on an…an emergency basis until he can set me up with a colleague. If that's all right with you."

Don felt an enormous surge of relief, but found himself waiting for the other shoe to drop. "Yes," he said hurriedly. "God, yes, that's all-right with me, Buddy."

Charlie nodded, and looked back at his father. "Unless I come to you and indicate a change of heart, this is off-limits, for us." He glanced again at Don. "All three of us. If you two need to talk, talk to each other. I need for this nightmare to stop – at least when I'm not paying someone to help me sort it out – and I need some peace. I cannot be worried all the time that one of you is going to go somewhere I'm not ready to go, yet. I'm sorry." Both Don and Alan were sufficiently stunned speechless, and Charlie gentled his voice before he went on. "Don't worry, it's not like I'm going to pretend none of this ever happened. I know it's unfair, to ask you to ignore obvious signs of distress, when they occur…."

His voice trailed off, and still Don and Alan were silent for a few moments. Finally Alan gave him a tiny smile. "Well. Well. Son, if you can't be unfair with your family, who can you be unfair with? I'll try to respect your wishes."

"Me, too," added Don, still trying to decide what he thought about the whole thing. "But I want you to know you can change your mind whenever you want. Three in the morning…whenever."

"That goes without saying," Alan put in.

Charlie nodded again just as the door swung open and a nurse appeared with a sheaf of paperwork. "Ah," he noted as he stepped aside to clear her path. "Just who we've been waiting for."

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Charlie saw Dr. Bradford that very afternoon, after he had gone to the cemetery where his mother was buried to make arrangements for Alana. He purchased a tiny plot in a section of the cemetery set aside for babies, and requested no service. After his session with the doctor, though, he agreed that Alan and Don should be allowed to make their own decisions.

Several days later, Don and Alan traveled to the cemetery's chapel for a special viewing. Charlie had declined to accompany them, and was at that moment meeting with the therapist Dr. Bradford was recommending. The Eppes were ushered solemnly into a small alcove, and the sight of the miniscule casket nearly knocked Don off his feet.

When he looked, reluctantly, finally, at the baby, the room began to spin dangerously. _Oh, my God_, he found himself thinking. _She looks just like Charlie! _He found himself remembering his brother as a newborn infant – whether from the actual memories of a 5-year-old or family photos, he wasn't sure – and immediate tears stung his eyes, then coursed down his face. It was some time before he could be sure he wasn't going to pass out, and a little longer after that before he realized his father was speaking.

He concentrated on the strange lilt and accent to Alan's voice, and sudden knowledge hit him that his father was saying _Kaddish_, the Jewish prayer of mourning. Don remembered hearing the same thing when his mother had died. He had even worked with Rabbi Sussman to memorize it, so that he could say it with Alan. He closed his eyes now, and dredged his memory banks. Voice low and clogged with tears, he joined in:

_Yit 'gadal v'yit kadash sh'mei raba b'al'madi v'ra khir'atei._

_V'yam'likh mal'kutei b'chayeikahn uv'yomeikhon, uv'chayei d'khal beit yis'ra'eil, ba'agala uviz'man kariv. V'im rui:_

_Amein. Y'hei sh'mei raba m'varakh l'alam ul'al'mei al'maya…_

_(May His great name grow exalted and sanctified in the world that He created as He willed._

_May He give reign to His kingdom in your lifetimes and in your days, and in the lifetime of the entire Family of Israel, swiftly and soon. Now say:_

_Amen. May His great name be blessed forever and ever…_

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Don stepped into the kitchen and sniffed appreciatively. It was nearing dinner, he was starved, and something smelled incredible. "Hey Dad."

Alan looked up with a soft smile. "Donnie. Charlie said you might stop by. I'm trying something new tonight – paella. It's rice with chicken, not too spicy. I figured it would sit well with Charlie."

"Smells great. I didn't see his car. Isn't he here yet?"

Alan studied him for a moment, and Don got the impression he had missed something. He was sure of it when his father spoke, looking back down at the cutting board. "It was a year today that Alana passed."

Don felt a pang of combined sorrow and guilt. He had known the date was coming up, but during the course of the last two busy weeks, he had completely forgotten about it.

Alan continued. "He called me over an hour ago to say he'd be a little late. I'm not entirely sure where he went, but if I had to guess, I would say the cemetery." He looked up, and his eyes met Don's.

Don stared back at him, thinking. "Maybe I could – do you think I should…"

Alan's face softened with a smile. "I don't see why not. Go ahead. I can time dinner for whenever you're both back."

Don nodded, and headed for his SUV. As he drove, his mind drifted back over the past year. Charlie had slowly, privately, worked his way through therapy, first with Bradford, and then with a Dr. Engleson that Bradford had recommended.

Don and Alan had respected his wishes for privacy, but it had made Don more than a little uncomfortable. Even after his brother seemed to be back on an even keel, he seemed reticent, unwilling to open up, to talk as freely as he had before. It was almost as if Charlie was hiding something, and he was afraid it would surface during routine conversation.

Don had worried that it was unhealthy; this reluctance to relate, but there was little he could say about it. He had, after all, made a promise. It seemed though, that even after all of the healing that had gone on, for all of them, that there was something that had been left undone, unfinished.

The day was overcast and windy, and it seemed to lay a somber curtain over the cemetery. Don picked his way through the neat plots, and slowed to a stop as his brother came into view. Charlie was standing with his back to him, head bowed, curls ruffled by the wind. Don watched him for a moment, and then quietly walked toward him, and as he came up beside him, Charlie glanced sideways.

"Hey," said Don softly, compassion in his expression.

Charlie looked back at the gravesite in front of him, and silence stretched for a moment. When he spoke, he kept his eyes on headstone. "She would have been one today. She'd definitely be crawling, maybe pulling herself up. She'd have her first teeth."

Don stood silently, trying to think of something to say. There _was_ nothing, he realized. Both of them had been through loss before. Everyone had to work through it; one could try to help, but in the end it had to be done on one's own. Instinctively, he did the best thing he could, standing there in quiet support.

Charlie sighed. "I suppose Dad's holding dinner."

"He said he could time it for whenever we wanted, Chuck. Take as long as you need."

"It's okay; I've been here for a while. I'm ready." In spite of the words, Charlie didn't move. His eyes wandered to his left, where they both knew their mother's grave was, but it was beyond their line of sight. He looked back at Alana's tiny engraved headstone. He stood there silently for a long minute, and then said softly, "I killed her, you know. His eyes drifted toward Don, and he caught the confused expression. "Jessica," he added quietly, by way of explanation.

Don stared at him, disconcerted. He didn't need the explanation; he knew who Charlie was talking about. The change in subject was abrupt enough, however, to be startling, and so was the way his brother had put it. "Charlie, I was there, remember? She pulled on the gun, and it went off. It was an accident."

Charlie faced him, his eyes troubled, but calm. "No. It wasn't an accident. When she reached for the gun, I pulled the trigger – on purpose." They stared at each other for a minute, Don speechless, and then Charlie looked away again, his voice quiet. "I remembered how it felt, being bound, waiting for help, waiting for her to end it. I couldn't let it happen to you."

Don couldn't find his voice. It was hard for agents who were a lot tougher than his brother when they killed their first person in the line of duty, and it was never someone they knew personally. Charlie had struggled with this by himself for a year.

"I had a hard time with it at first," Charlie admitted quietly, seemingly reading his thoughts. "Dr. Engleson and I spent a lot of time on that. In the end, what helped me was the realization that I didn't do it out of hatred, or revenge. I did it out of love, to save you." He looked up at Don. "And I would do it again, tomorrow, if I had to."

Don felt his eyes sting with tears, and he reached out and gathered Charlie to his chest in a fierce hug, one hand resting on Charlie's head, pressing it to his shoulder. "You amaze me, you know that?" Don whispered. He cleared his throat, and spoke, his voice shaky. "You're going to make one hell of a dad, one of these days." He released Charlie, and gave the curls a gentle tousle. "You already make one hell of a brother."

Charlie held his eyes for a moment, searchingly, and then a smile crept to his face. Don smiled back, and put an arm around him, and they turned toward their cars. "Come on, bro," he said softly. "Let's go home."

---------------------------------------------------

The End


End file.
